Esau and Jacob say their goodbyes
by Lady Charity
Summary: After Svartalfheim, Loki is still alive. In the end, it changes nothing. In which Thor hurts, Loki loves, and Jane learns how to lie.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm a fool._

_I'm sorry—_

Thor hears him again.

He knows by now that it is a dream. It doesn't bother him—not that much, at least. Not enough to force himself to wake up.

Because outside of dreams, there is no other way for him to hear Loki's voice.

_I'm sorry—_

Thor doesn't remember where he last was in this fantasy, only that now he finds himself kneeling—again—in dark ashes, bent low as if to shield the ground with his body.

He knows Loki is in his arms without needing to look down.

_I'm so sorry—_

He doesn't want to dream of this again. Doesn't want to entertain his masochism that toys him with images of Loki he cannot hear, or Loki's voice he cannot find, or Loki's presence he cannot feel, because his dreams were no longer meant to make-believe as reality. But he doesn't try to wake himself up, because he still remembers Loki's voice, and that in itself is a painful relief.

"It's all right," Thor says again.

He looks down. Loki is in his arms, gray-faced and wide-eyed as short, sharp breaths escape his thin lips. He feels so light in Thor's hands. Thor tries hard not to squeeze, not to concentrate on how he cannot truly feel Loki, or else his mind would realize it did not trick itself and force him awake.

Thor reaches a hand to cup Loki's face. He thinks of other words he could say, other truths he ought to relay, anything else that he could have done _better_ before he let his brother die in his arms for his sake, but every time he tries to say a word he can only sob.

_I'm so sorry, Thor—_

Thor bends low to hug Loki closer to him, just to feel him against his chest and dear God if only he could _save_ him. Because it is so damn pathetic that even in his dreams, where he can be the god of his own mind, he still cannot keep Loki from dying. He never can.

He tries not to squeeze his eyes shut. He wants to cry.

"Loki," Thor says.

_Thor—_

"Brother—"

_Thor, Thor, look, Thor—_

Thor is suddenly standing, empty-armed. He is in the Midgardian city—London. There are no ashes here, no black sands. No whipping, stinging wind.

He turns. There is the large clock tower. Over there, the university hall. And there, just beyond, he can see the large wheel. Familiarity.

_Have you ever gone on it?_

Loki is standing beside him, pointing at the London Eye. He wears none of his armor, his hair is clean. There is no dark hole in his chest.

Thor almost answers. Loki grins with such ease, expecting an answer, as if none of this was so abnormal, even in a dream's standard.

"How long will you haunt me?" Thor says.

This is not the first time he asks this. Regardless, he does not think he will mind the time.

_Will you ever forget me?_

Thor pauses, then laughs.

_What is it?_

"You've never been here, have you?" says Thor.

He knows Loki hasn't, and never will, but he takes Loki's arm and takes him around the city, to see this new town and new life, as he has done countless times in countless other dreams before. It is some sort of wistful hunger, a desire—just to take his brother and show him around his new home—and reality is already so broken that it can never happen.

The dream changes. He and Loki are standing on the edge of a shattered Bifrost. Loki looks down at the swirling mass of stars where the Observatory had fallen into, leaning over the edge dangerously. Thor tries to cling to Loki's shoulder, to keep him steady. Loki keeps slipping from his fingers.

Loki looks back. His face is young. Thor nearly does not recognize it.

_Would I still be dead if this went differently?_

Thor wants to answer, but he does not know. He is afraid to say no, and afraid to say yes. Because the answer hardly matters when Loki is already dead.

Thor is in Svartalfheim again, all of a sudden. He stands in the ashes, but this time, he sees himself. Like a ghost, he sees himself holding Loki in frightened, shaking arms. Thor never realized how small Loki is compared to him until now.

He watches himself cry as Loki stammers, as Loki bleeds and his hands shake.

_I know, I'm a fool—_

_I'm a fool—_

_I'm sorry—_

He wills himself to hug Loki closer, to tell Loki that he loves him, to press a kiss on his forehead. He wonders why his past self has never thought of such small but meaningful acts of love before. It's too late now.

He watches his dream-self do what he wishes he truly had done. Press lips against a pale forehead, hold the bleeding form close to his heart. His heart bursts with a strange jealousy.

Loki's eyes are slipping close for the last time. Thor tries to close his own—he does not want to see this, see Loki take his last breath again. But he has no eyelids to close and no gaze to turn away, and he watches—again—as Loki's head falls back and eyes close, and how his other self would shake Loki to no avail, and scream.

Thor almost has time to will his other self to lift Loki into his arms before the black wind could pick up, to carry his brother's body with him so he could take him back to Asgard and not leave it in this stranger's land so far from home—but before he can, he wakes.

It is cold. Thor is lying on his left side—he never sleeps on his left side. He always found it harder to breathe that way.

He opens his eyes. It is still dark—the timepiece on the coffee table reads three in the morning. The night is still long, and young.

He still can see Loki in the back of his mind. His stomach churns and he pulls the covers over his head. It is strangely comforting, but only just.

He stays like so for perhaps ten minutes, waiting for Loki's memory to subside to a low simmer, so that it only scorches him a little. Then he throws the blankets off as if they are chains and stumbles off of the couch he was sleeping on.

His neck hurts. He rubs it, wincing.

There is a low rumble of thunder. He tries to restrain it, guilt pricking the back of his mind. He can't stop it, though. He is (was) never like Loki, who could hide emotions like all that is needed is a curtain drawn to close the window to the heart. If Thor must be strong, then so will his storms.

He drags himself to the tiny kitchen and turns on the light. There is nothing to distract himself in the fridge, except he doesn't have the stomach to take in anything. He fills a glass with tap water and drains it quickly. And then another cup.

It begins to rain—softly, slowly, then all at once. He tells himself that it isn't his fault. It only rains harder.

He goes back to the living room where he sleeps and turns on a lamp. The sofa's cushions are massively indented from his sleeping form; he kicks them back into shape and sits on the floor.

He rubs his still stiff neck. It thunders—it is soft, and muffled, like a yawn.

(_I'm so sorry—_)

It's like trying to recall an old lullaby from a childhood that might as well not be his own. Thor cannot believe that he can only hear that voice inside his head, and not his ears anymore.

He suppresses a shudder. His heart feels like it is twisting.

"Thor?"

Thor turns his head. Jane is at the doorway to the small hallway of their shared flat. After Thor made it known to SHIELD that he is stationing himself on Earth, they provided him his own flat in London and necessities for surviving. Still, he finds himself in Jane's own flat more often than not when he is afraid of his shadow more than he hates the dark.

"Hello," he says to her.

Jane comes and sits down next to him on the floor, a fleece blanket around her shoulders. Thor stares at the blank television screen before him. His arms itch, and he runs his hand over them. He keeps feeling like they are carrying some burden, or at least they should.

"You okay?" she said.

He nodded.

"I can't fall asleep," he says. "That's all."

A groan of thunder over their heads. Jane presses her lips together. She watches his face carefully. He still looks forward, at the blank screen that he expects to see his reflection, but apparently this is not the same as a mirror, and he only sees blank gray.

"You've had another nightmare again," she says, "didn't you?"

Thor says nothing. Jane puts a small hand on his back, rubbing small circles between his shoulders. He takes in a deep breath, and it must have been too big because it makes his chest ache.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"No, no," she says. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about. _I'm_ sorry, Thor." Her voice softens. "I'm so sorry."

The rims of his eyes burn. He can still see how Loki's eyes had slipped close, and how he stopped breathing and stopped moving and stopped living.

"It has already been a month," Thor says. "Why does it feel like it was only yesterday?"

"There's nothing wrong with it still hurting," Jane says. "It'll take a while, and that's okay."

Like a child, Thor wraps his arms around his legs. He hugs them tight, trying to relieve that emptiness in his touch that he cannot fill again, because when he returned to Svartalfheim after the battle he couldn't find Loki's body again. He feels like a failure.

"This is the second time, Jane," says Thor. "This is the second time I just let him die."

"You didn't let him die," Jane says.

But he _did_, and Thor does not understand why Jane doesn't realize that, because when Heimdall declared Loki alive after his fall from the Bifrost, Thor thought that finally, surely, he had a second chance to make it all right, that he could pull Loki out of that Void that was his mind—Thor had been given that second chance, and Loki had died again because of Thor, and there is nothing left.

"Did I wake you?" Thor says.

"No," she says. "Don't worry about me." She grips his shoulder. Her hands are so small that they can barely grasp his shoulder. "What can I do for you now?"

"I don't know," says Thor.

He knows he should sleep—he has to wake up early to go to the SHIELD base at London. He needs his energy. But he doesn't want to keep dreaming, if all it will do is make him wake up wishing reality isn't actually all there is.

"Jane," says Thor.

Jane raises her head to him. He swallows hard, then swallows again.

"He looked so frightened when I held him, Jane," Thor says. His voice suddenly shakes. He can't help it—he claps his hand over his mouth. "He looked so frightened and _in pain_ and I couldn't do anything, I couldn't even bring him back home—"

She holds him tight and rocks him as he crumples. Cradles his head as he shakes, as he nearly crushes her in his arms because he cannot stop feeling the frail weight that was his brother's body.

"You've been so strong, Thor," Jane says. She is crying for him. He wishes she would cry for Loki, too. "You've been so strong this whole time, Thor, it's _okay_ to still grieve. It still hurts, but that's _okay._"

Thor doesn't know why he cannot put his brother's memory to rest. He has had little time to put his mother's to rest either, and even with Jane holding him he feels so alone.

_Oh Loki—_

_I wonder if I could have ever saved you._

* * *

It still hurts.

Like a splinter embedded in skin. It stings, but he can't pick it out, and he knows it will only get worse.

He unconsciously keeps his unfamiliarly calloused, weathered hand just below his chest, where it twinges. Still, he keeps his back straight, so no one will see something amiss. As if he is only keeping a straight-shouldered stance.

His magic shudders. He feels it in his core.

He pretends it is nothing. He only has enough time to convince himself that before it is all too obvious.

(_Loki died with honor—)_

He hides a laugh.

He still can feel Thor's hand cradling his neck.

Died with honor, and yet—

"All-Father."

Loki turns his head veiled with Odin's visage. The Lady Sif and Volstaag stand before him, the small metal box held tightly in Sif's hands. He tries not to smile at her. He tightens his grip on Gungnir.

"Do you truly mean to give the Aether up to another's care?" she says.

He wonders if she doubts him. She always seems to doubt his role as king. He supposes—in hindsight—it is odd to Sif, undoubtedly, that the All-Father would imprison her and the Warriors Three for treason only to be released with an important task. But Loki has no interest in keeping a front. There is very little wrong with a little more chaos.

"Yes," he says. His voice hurts when he mimics Odin. "Our vaults can only be home to so much power. What wisdom is there to keep the Tesseract and the Infinity Gauntlet in the same place as it?"

He remembers the Void. He still feels the electrifying pain of the Other's touch. The horror of something sweeter than pain.

He will not let fear of Thanos control him any longer.

"And the Collector?" says Sif. "He will keep guard of it? He has no army to defend it."

What good is an army, Loki wants to say, in the face of Thanos? One cannot wage a war with Thanos and expect to win—Loki can only set him on a wild goose chase, and watch him dance for as long as possible, until Thanos is crushed into fine dust and ruin just as he had crushed Loki.

"It is safer in the hands of a spoiled child than that of a warring king," says Loki.

His gaze lingers on the Aether—sometimes he wonders how it feels to have that power thrum in his veins. To have the touch to bend reality however he wills it.

He takes a breath. Feels the splinter in his bones.

He wonders if he would change anything at all, if he had the power.

But unlimited power is nothing but a trinket now. It cannot help him anymore, even if he would let it.

"As you wish, my liege," Sif says.

She and Volstaag place their fists across their chests. For a moment Loki basks in this warmth of thinly deserved honor, this power to be able to hold the realms' fate in balance as an Infinity Gem leaves the Vault—except he feels weary and this body he moves feels like he is trying to stretch tight rubber, and this honor and power and throne are nothing but props, gilded wood that digs into his skin and hurts.

When they turn to leave, he sinks into the throne. He tries not to smile—even harder not to laugh, because the world thinks him dead and yet he plays its pieces until the world will not play out the same if it was not for him.

His breath suddenly falls short. He closes his eyes and swallows, and tastes the ghost of blood.

(_—died with honor—)_

Loki feels Thor's hand cradling his neck, and he smiles in spite of himself.

He almost reaches behind his neck just to feel if anything was truly there.

He is free to remain or to find the ends of this reality, and yet he knows he cannot stay away any longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Thank you so so much for checking this story out. I'm actually having a lot of fun writing this, so I hope that it will be fun for you to read. I will have to admit though that the pace is a slower one, so please have faith in me :'). I'd say the first main plot point will come in the next chapter teehee.**

* * *

"If I tell you something, would you swear to keep it secret?"

Jane pauses in her dicing of the potatoes. She turns to Thor, who is at the stove heating an oiled skillet. He had come straight to her flat after a meeting with SHIELD again. At this rate, SHIELD never needed to procure that flat of Thor's down the street at all.

He is frowning at the stove, as if a confusing riddle is etched in the pan. He has been strangely quiet since he returned from the SHIELD London-based headquarters, but he has been quiet altogether ever since Malekith. Or rather, ever since Loki.

"It depends," says Jane. "It depends why you're keeping it a secret."

"SHIELD has told me to," says Thor. "They say no one except a select few can know."

Well, damn Thor for feeding her curiosity, because if Jane is anything, she is one who apparently will face near-death experiences just to find the answers.

"I won't tell," she says. "What did SHIELD tell you?"

Thor trusts easily; she can't help but wonder if she ever takes advantage of that.

"Agent Coulson is alive," Thor says.

Jane nearly cuts the tip of her finger off with the paring knife. She puts it down quickly as if it is hot and turns quickly to Thor.

"Coulson?" she says. "But he was declared dead. SHIELD declared him dead. You said that Lo—that he got stabbed."

She knows that Thor caught the slip of her tongue. He tries not to wince and instead pretends he is fiddling with the gas stove knobs. The lengths he will go to hide his stings are painful.

"I thought the same," says Thor. "But I went to SHIELD today and I saw him. He's perfectly alive, but few are allowed to know."

"You must have nearly gotten a heart attack," Jane says. She still remembers how when she heard the news of Coulson's death, along with the entirety of what the hell was going on in New York, while SHIELD had housed her (or rather, quarantined her) in Norway, she couldn't help but think first how he had confiscated all her equipment and research without any explanation or compensation, the bastard. "How'd he survive? You said it was a stab in the heart."

"SHIELD's medics are apparently highly advanced in their technology," Thor says. He shrugs and takes the potatoes from the cutting board and brushes them into the skillet. The sound of crackling oil fills the kitchen. "I'm glad he is recovered and well. It must have been painful."

Jane glances down at how Thor's hands fumble with the spatula, as if he can't get a good grip on the rubber handle before it slips from his hold. She knows he can still see that blade pierce Loki through the chest, and right through the back, not unlike Coulson's wound. She doesn't know whether to touch his shoulder, or pretend she does not notice.

She chooses the latter, busying herself with the ground beef and peppers. The problem is that there is no formula, no equation, no theory to loss and grief, so how would she understand how to help him?

"Midgard's technology truly is fascinating," Thor says.

It's sad how Thor thinks he should ration his emotions so that he does not have to pour it onto others any more than once every two weeks, except he instead lets it flood inside until he's drowning himself without holding his breath.

She teaches him how to cook ground beef, potatoes, carrots, and peppers—she tells Thor it's Cuban picadillo, when really it is all her leftovers and a generous amount of cumin. He's trying to learn how to make his place on Earth, but he is still struggling to be human.

("I shouldn't have left him behind," Thor once said. His voice was brittle, and he was standing out in the tiny terrace of his flat and for a moment she was afraid he would jump, except that wouldn't even break his leg, much less his fall. "I should have taken him to the healers before he died, I should have never left him behind, I should have taken him back _home_—")

"What else is SHIELD going to make you do?" she says.

"Agent Coulson has informed me of some metal titan by the name of Ultron has been arousing suspicion back in the United States," says Thor, "but as of right now there is no certain threat."

Jane nods. "That's good," she says. He has enough to worry about, to keep him up at night. "Hey—so, my colleague Wanda, the one in the university, she invited us out to dinner on Friday. Italian food. How does that sound?"

Thor smiles. She lets her hopes rise, that he could have something to look forward to, even if it is as simple as chicken marsala.

"That sounds fine," he says. He absentmindedly shovels the food in the pan around so that it sputters loudly. "Thank you."

Jane puts the cutting board into the sink. If only she could find the perfect solution for him, to find out what he really wants so she could just help him be happy again, but Thor has lost both his mother and his brother only a month ago, and both of them within a day of each other—she can only really let him grieve, and wait. And if anything, what he really wants, she knows she cannot truly give. With all her degrees and awards and research, she can't bring back the dead from the stars.

_Ping, ping_. Rain is patting the windowpanes again. They are thin, needle-like, and leave only silver lines down the glass. Jane imagines it would sting if she tried to hold out her hand and catch the drops.

She doesn't bother asking Thor if it is him. The city is already perpetually drowning as it is. Another man's grief hardly makes a difference.

* * *

Loki knows that he could get away with it.

No one knows the All-Father is in the Odinsleep when a parody of him walks through the golden halls, letting Asgard unfold in ways it has never seen before under the guise of reconstruction after Malekith's war, making decisions that Odin and his narrow-minded, stone-set ideology would never dream, giving the people what they _want_ (but perhaps didn't know it). No one knows that Loki has claimed Asgard as his canvas whether he makes a masterpiece out of it or utterly ruins it.

With the knife between his fingers, Loki knows he can slit that beaten throat and not bat an eye.

He stands over Odin's bedside, which Loki has cloaked with enchantments so stifling that Heimdall could not dream to penetrate it. The knife is between his fingers, as one would hold a quill at rest, like it is merely a prop to hold and not a tool that could end someone's life.

Loki feels his heart race. Adrenaline makes him feel alive—a thrill and a deadbeat disappointment.

Odin's neck is bare. It would take very little to cut out his pulse. To change the entire course of Asgard.

He wonders if this is how the Norns feel—to have so much control, so much power and determination of what happens next, of how the world will play out while he can sit back and let it rise or fall until he fades. To finally have say about _himself_ and have a purpose—have an effect to his cause, like a starter to a chain reaction that leads to either the rise of a nation or Ragnarok.

He holds his breath. This excitement of being able to cause order or mayhem, chaos or purpose, however he chose—makes him giddy.

_Glorious purpose—_

His fingers tighten briefly until the blade barely cuts his skin. Once he thought he could only set the world in play, see his actions cause earthquakes, if he had a throne. Now, he can change the universe just by standing still.

Do it, he thinks, and he stares at any unguarded, unprotected part of Odin that is not his face.

He feels the blade against his cut. He wonders if this is how Laufey—how his _father_—had felt before Loki killed him. Standing before the All-Father, with the weight of the universe just at his fingertips.

(There was a body, he had said, and Odin turned and said his name in a way that made Loki hold his breath)

Do it, what will you lose? _Your birthright was to die_—whose is not? He is not your father, you are not his son, and you have what you _deserve_ so _DO IT_—

(Where is my son's body, Odin had said, and before Loki could spin a lie he screamed _WHERE—IS—MY—SON'S—BODY—?_ until he drove Gungnir into the floor and let out an ugly cry, and Loki could only watch until Odin sank and sank and _sank_ until the Odinsleep overwhelmed him, and Loki couldn't help but realize this was the second time he had driven Odin to this)

Loki clenches his teeth and raises his chin, so that he looks down his nose at Odin. His hand shakes, but he tells himself it is Odin's visage that makes him seem wizened and frail.

It would be so damn _easy_, to just let that knife fall into Odin's chest. Right down the middle, where Loki too harbors his fatal blow. And Asgard would be without a king, because Loki was born to be a king but he knows he would not live to be one. If Asgard toppled, if it was consumed, he did not know—only that it would not stand still.

In this moment, whatever he chooses, Loki feels like the most powerful being of Yggdrasil.

He holds up the knife. It glints in the dim gold light—his blood did not make it to the blade. It is pointed straight toward Odin's chest.

He is breathing harder now. He wonders if this will be the last time he will feel this _alive_, when there is so much dying going on in this room.

(Odin's last words before he drowned in his deep sleep was Loki's name)

Loki breathes. He remembers his hatred. Waits for it to boil his blood, to burn. To _consume_ him.

Odin who rejected him, Odin who denied him, Odin who would have executed him, Odin who said _no, Loki, _Odin who saw him no more than a tool, a pawn, an animal staining his house, Odin who deserves nothing _less_—

(Odin who once held his hand, Odin who cried out when brought news of Loki's death, Odin who screamed for Loki's body, Odin from whom Loki hungered love so much until he hated him, Odin who said _you are my _son—)

In a swift motion, Loki threw the knife aside. His hands shake, but his face remains unchanged. His finger still stings from the cut.

The knife clatters on the floor, an empty metallic sound, before it vanishes from sight. The only sound left is of breathing—Odin's steady, sleeping breaths, and Loki's ragged, dying ones.

He almost finds himself reaching out to touch Odin, but he stops. He knows the touch will only burn until he is disgusted.

And yet Odin still breathes, and does not bleed.

"This is no mercy," Loki says. "This is vengeance."

Because now Odin's entrance to Valhalla will be delayed—Odin's reunion with Frigga for eternity will be pushed off, all because of Loki, and at least now out of all of them it will be Loki who will reunite with Frigga first, Loki who will find his true peace and happiness and end before any of them, this is _not for Odin_—he thinks this feverishly, until he is babbling in his mind, until he is so convinced that he is shaking, and stumbling.

He pulls the cloak of invisibility over himself as Odin's visage fades from his form, leaving sickened, pale skin. Asgard is closing in on him—he feels it against his lungs. If he leaves now, Asgard would be shaken, their king disposed all along and their phantom king only a phantom, but Loki leaves chaos wherever he walks, and it doesn't matter, not anymore. He owes Asgard nothing, and Asgard has no debt to him—he is Loki, and he is alone.

He doesn't know if Odin saw him as he slept or not—if he would wake in an hour or in a week or at all. Loki tears open a hole in reality and falls through the branches, falls from Asgard.

He tries so hard not to look back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome back, loves! Thank you so much for returning for chapter 3! Finally, we get some long-awaited interaction...or at least, by six degrees of separation. I hope you guys enjoy! Thanks so much for reading and for those review and/or add this story to their list of favorites! You guys are always such a huge encouragement.**

* * *

"Well, something's not right," says Jane. "That much is obvious."

Coulson raises his eyebrows at her. Jane cannot help but hide a snort as she leafs through the statistics that he has given her. She paces back to the drawing board and pins the paper back onto the whiteboard with a magnet.

"Yes, we know," says Coulson. "That's why we brought you in here in the first place."

"Of course you would," Jane says. "Because I'm not allowed to exercise my knowledge in astrophysics until SHIELD needs me to, right?"

Coulson's mild smile does not change. "I take it our compensation still hasn't softened you up after all these years."

"I had the panic attack of seeing all my life's work being shipped off in your metal vans," Jane says. "I'm not softening up at all."

She turns back to the Hubble photos of the outer rings of galaxy. In all seriousness, there is something certainly amiss in the universe. The stars are misaligned, their colors changing faster than the light years should allow them. The imbalanced levels of cosmic rays being measured are beyond natural progression. She frowns at the data before clicking a ballpoint pen and circling on the paper.

"Look at this," she says. "The star is changing temperature at an alarmingly fast rate, and what's odd is that we're not only measuring that live time but we're _seeing _it. We shouldn't be noticing anything for another—I don't know—five hundred million years. Not to mention that this star ought to be dead by now—it shouldn't be changing anything."

As unsettling as it should be, Jane feels herself going giddy at this revelation. It was an anomaly, a freak of nature, but it does not ward her off from their contradictions but instead entice her curiosity.

"And—wait, look at this," she says. She points to a telephoto. It is hard to pick out what is what in the paper that is nearly entirely black, but her eyes have been strained enough to see the dust particles of white in the night. "Where Cassiopeia is supposed to be—there are new stars in the way, where her chair is supposed to be."

She sucks in a quick breath. Are the births of new stars finally coming to light? She turns eagerly to Thor, her enthusiasm overflowing and desperate to fill something else. Thor isn't even looking at her—he stands by the window. One hand is pressed against the window, as if to press palms with the rain greasing the glass. He stands stock still, as if trying to search for something in the London streets.

"But we can't be that lucky," says Jane. "I mean, it's not adding up to what we're seeing in the data."

"We have reasons to believe that this isn't natural, Ms. Foster," Coulson says, tapping her shoulder to recall her attention.

"Yeah," she says. She tries not to frown curiously at Thor, who looks as if he has not heard a single word. "Yeah—I mean, definitely. Look at the sheer amount of rays you're measuring—that's as much as if you had a supernova right where the sun is supposed to be. What's this?"

She points to the jagged lines measuring the levels of an unlabeled ray. Coulson pulls down the paper from the whiteboard and hands it to her. She takes it greedily, searching for answers in the untapped potential.

"It looks like it's close to gamma rays," says Coulson. "But not entirely."

"It looks like it's more than gamma rays," she says. "Thor?"

Thor lifts his head as if he has just been caught dozing. Jane doesn't know whether to feel concerned or frustrated. Thor has been tugged back and forth by SHIELD—he won't say what it is that troubles Earth, or himself, and Jane can't tell if she can no longer read him as well or if she never was able to.

"Can you look at this, Thor?" Jane says. "It looks—I mean, I'm no expert at it, but I remember you saying—or Dr. Banner's studies said it—that magic involves gamma rays."

"What are you suggesting?" Thor says.

Jane holds out the paper to him. He peels himself away from the window and takes the paper. He takes one look at the sheet before shaking his head, handing it back.

"I'm afraid I can only tell you about magic if I see and feel it," Thor says. "I never grasped the theory. That was always—not my strength."

_That was always Loki's strength, _is what Jane knows is on the tip of Thor's tongue.

"It doesn't look like a natural occurrence," Jane says. "What if it's something going on in the the other realms?"

Thor purses his lips. "That was a thought of mine," he says, "when we were called here. But the Nine Realms ought to be in peace—at least, they have no reason to battle amongst themselves, much less with each other. Something of this degree would be something between Realms, if not beyond it."

"What are the possibilities that it's beyond it?" says Coulson. "I don't think any of those Chitauri friends of ours claim loyalty to any of those Norse planets of yours."

"They oughtn't to be visible from Midgard," says Thor. "Unless they've moved inward in Yggdrasil."

"Whatever it is, it's moving insanely close to us," Jane says.

"Thor, I just want to get this out," Coulson says. "If this is another one of your alien relatives coming to attack us to resolve their parental issues—"

"It's not," Thor says.

His voice is like a heavy boulder that came to crush this conversation into fine dust. Coulson says nothing else, instead buying time to pin the paper back onto the board with a magnet. Jane casts a sidelong glance at Thor. She never wondered until now if Thor ever spoke about Loki's death to SHIELD.

"I'll return to Asgard to find out what this irregularity is for you," says Thor. "If there is something truly amiss and unnatural, Heimdall would see it, and if it is anything to fight off, Midgard is under Asgard's protection. I shall see to it that it will not be harmed."

"You're going to go back?" says Jane.

"It has been on my mind," says Thor. "Not just to make sure the Nine Realms are at peace, but because Asgard had been under siege until I last left it. I want to know if there has been recovery—if there is anything I can do for my home."

Jane wishes she doesn't feel so crestfallen by this. Thor has every right and reason to be worried, homesick even. But she cannot help but always worry that the next time she sees him disappear in a flood of rushing light will be the last time she sees him, without her even knowing.

"Thank you, Thor," says Coulson. "Now, Ms. Foster, if you could look at these data for me…"

Thor retreats from the room to leave Jane and Coulson. The moment Thor closes the door behind him, Coulson turns fully to Jane.

"I've got to ask," Coulson says. "What's he doing back?"

Jane's bottom jaw twitches.

"If you dragged me to your stupid headquarters saying you wanted my expertise only to gossip with me, you've duped the wrong person," Jane says.

"Not in the slightest," Coulson says. "But while you're here, you're also the only person that may know."

"You're not going to try to kick him out, are you?" says Jane. "Because frankly, even if you want to, it isn't like you're going to have a lot of say in that, if you know what I mean."

"We were just under the impression that he was going to be king of his home planet sooner rather than later," says Coulson. He gathers the data into a neat manila folder. "Most kings don't take vacation days."

Jane hesitates. She casts a glance at the door that Thor had just walked through. She knows the answer, but it isn't hers to tell.

"Why don't you just ask him yourself?" Jane says. "You'd get a straighter answer."

"Would we?" says Coulson.

"Do you think Thor would ever be a liar?" says Jane.

"No," says Coulson. "I suppose that's more down Loki's alley than Thor's."

For a moment, Jane still can hear Thor's scream of anguish in those ash mountains. She tries not to look away.

"That might not be the best thing to say," she says.

"Something wrong with Thor?" says Coulson.

Jane digs out her wallet and pulls out one of her plain business cards, handing it to Coulson. Coulson takes it, frowning quizzically.

"What's this for?" he says.

"I thought you might need it," Jane says. "Just so you can read it and it says I'm a professional astrophysicist researcher, not a gossiper you can go to when you want to dig into Thor's personal matters."

Coulson's smile doesn't faze, but his eyebrow twitches. Nevertheless, he pockets the business card and hands Jane the folder of data.

"If you don't mind," he says, "look over these for us. There's probably much more happening that we can't even see."

She takes the gesture of appeasement, her eyebrow twitching.

"Might take me a while," says Jane. "I have to prepare for a lecture I'm giving to the University of London in two weeks on neutrino astronomy. This might have to take the back burner and all."

Which is a lie, because knowing her she is probably going to scour through the data, if not collect her own, about this strange occurrence because by _God_ was this curious. She leaves the room to search for Thor. She finds him waiting for her on the ground floor, lost in his thoughts as he watches blankly the people that pass him by, not paying attention as some newer agents stare at him in awe and intimidation. She runs forward toward him, placing a hand on his arm. He jerks slightly at her touch.

"You okay?" she says.

"Yes," he says.

There was a time she believed his calmness and composure. That was until she caught him shaking his sleep, and now she isn't sure how to believe anything he says when it is about himself.

"Let's go," she says.

He follows her without protest. He puts a hand on her other shoulder as if to keep her steps steady, as if she is weak and hurt and in need of support, except she is perfectly fine and wondering if he is still in a battlefield in his mind.

"Thor, when are you going back?" she says. "To Asgard."

"As soon as possible," says Thor. "I do not know how Asgard fares after Malekith's attack, even after all this time. And if there really is a threat coming to Midgard, it is better to stop it in its tracks than let it crash into Earth."

"Okay," says Jane.

Maybe this trip back home, even if it may be stressful, will be good for him. He has lost his mother and brother, and Jane for all she is cannot fill the hole that was once his home. His life went from having everything to losing everything, and she wonders how much more Thor has to suffer in his next five thousand years.

She wonders, briefly, before she tries to bury the thought under layers and layers of other less intimidating truths, if she will just be another drop in the ocean of loss he will have to endure.

"You will be all right for the next week or so, will you?" says Thor.

"Thor, I went through two years without you," says Jane.

"Perhaps," Thor says. He gives a crooked smile. "Though Darcy tells me you coped in an interesting manner."

Jane's face burns. "Shut up and go back home for a month if you have to. At least just _tell _me if it'll take you a year."

He squeezes her shoulder. For a moment Jane wonders if she should tell Thor what Coulson was trying to find out from her—warn him just in case Coulson does drill him later, catch him off guard—bring up Loki again. Or maybe Coulson never will, and has enough tact to keep silence, in which case it is better to instead stay silent.

"Truly, though," says Thor. "If you are ever in need of help—if you are ever in dire trouble, and I am not with you, Heimdall can hear you from here. Call for him and—"

"I'm not going to call up the Heimdall line for you just because I need help or something," says Jane.

"But if there is ever anything—"

"Listen," Jane says. "That's sweet of you, Thor. That's really, really sweet. But Asgard probably needs you—" And as much as she might tell herself she needs Thor, in all truthfulness Asgard needs him more. "—and it isn't like there isn't anyone on Earth who isn't capable of helping me out if there really is anything wrong."

"Jane—"

"I'm serious," she says.

Thor gazes at her with a strange sadness she cannot place a name over. Jane doesn't know whether to be somewhat affronted if not slightly concerned that Thor thinks she needs to constantly be protected, or saddened that Thor feels this constant need to protect _someone_ or _something_—and hopes he doesn't feel like he has failed already.

"All right," he says.

She reaches to her shoulder and squeezes his hand. After all, a week, she reasons with herself, is hardly anything compared to two years. It's hardly enough time to worry.

* * *

When Loki wakes, he cannot stop shaking.

He doesn't know if it is because his bones ache, or if because when he woke up he woke up laughing.

He is cold—painfully, in a way that stings his fingers, and slightly out of breath. He can still feel the remnants of a dusty laugh in his lungs, forcing him to cough.

He doesn't remember what it was that he dreamt, only the emotion that it left behind bottled in his chest. He can only feel how so damn painful it is, right behind his heart, and he wonders if that is physical or metaphorical. It makes him laugh even harder, or it would have if he isn't already breathless.

He closes his eyes again and tries to remember where he is. Where he last was. He thinks he remembers dark shadows. Twisting words. His invisible shield growing heavy.

He takes too sharp of a breath and his chest aches. He holds his breath for as long as possible to keep his chest from moving, from hurting.

When he keeps his eyes closed long enough, he thinks he can see faces beneath his eyelids, meaning in the darkness.

He knows he recognizes Frigga somewhere in that emptiness.

For a moment, Thor's face briefly flits through his mind too.

Loki laughs at himself again.

That brother of his is dead, because he is dead, so why does he keep dreaming of him? The last chance Loki had to taking arms with Thor are long wasted and gone, as dead and gone as he will be. There is no point in remembering.

He tells himself—loudly, in his head—that he is not on Midgard because of Thor.

He is hidden within the folds of reality, neither here nor there, hiding. A shield of invisibility from Heimdall's and everyone's sight is growing too heavy for him to uphold. He can barely tell where he is in regards to Midgard—maybe above an ocean, or on a mountain, even. Maybe alone.

He wraps a new visage around himself—the image of a young, unnoticeably impeccable man with burning red hair and sharp Midgardian attire until traces of himself are stowed from view—before he stretches open the folds of reality and falls into place on Midgard.

The air is jarring—it stabs Loki in the lungs and each breath sends shivers down his body. He takes a step and has to lean against a wall to keep himself from falling. The skin on his chest prickles.

He curses his magic for the fifth time this month—and hates himself for cursing it. To think that the one thing he once took so much pride in, the one thing that has at least remained steadfast and loyal to him when nothing else did, even himself, is what is robbing him of his proper end. Forcing him to endure this—_this_, whatever it is, because if it is not dying then it certainly is not living.

When Loki catches his breath again, he raises his head. He does not recognize this place—not New York City or Stuttgard, then, if anything. It is chilly here—he is glad of his choice in jacket and scarf. The streets are mildly crowded enough that none of the mortals really notice his sudden appearance, much less his faint one.

He tries hard not to ask himself, what am I doing here?

He doesn't want to be ashamed of his answer.

Loki lifts his chin and pushes away the weakness. He has lasted this long, and if fate was as kind to him as it has been in the past, he will have to endure much longer.

_Well, Loki_, he thinks. _What is your grand scheme now?_

He grins to himself, because for once he does not bother to think of one.

Not until he finds a loose thread in someone's plan, someone's design—tug at it until he lets it unravel, and see it disperse. Until he changes the world irrevocably as if to say _here I am!_ because if he must die slowly then he must not spend the time idly, wasting.

He raises his head, cranes his neck to look further. The streets are peppered with people. Human faces—nothing very significant or distinguishable, very little worth looking at. But he walks on light feet, as if he is trying to sneak up on someone, surprise them, even though he knows no one and cares for no one here.

He sees a tall figure with longer blond hair and his heart jumps.

He opens his mouth, trying to choke out a sound.

The figure turns. Whoever it is, they are absolutely unrecognizable.

Loki closes his mouth—pretends that he is yawning. Something in his chest drops, like a heavy stone tied to his insides. He doesn't know what he was even expecting.

No, he knows what it is that he wants. But it's a pitiful, needless want. He is not on Midgard to dwell on that—on _him_.

_Then why are you on Midgard in the first place?_

Because where else does he have to go?

It takes him a moment for him to realize that he is wandering in a university.

At least, he presumes. Odin had preferred that Thor and Loki had private tutors, but the other nobles their age attended something like a university. The area is full of mostly young people, carrying books and odd devices whose screen changes at their touch. A proper breeding place for conditioned minds, undoubtedly.

He cannot help but smile. If he poses as a tutor without anyone suspecting otherwise, think of all the _influence_ he can impose on them. He stows the idea away—tempting, but pointless. Midgardian minds, however expansive they may or may not be, can only last for so long. It is not so much influence as it is a bare brush upon this world.

Except, he thinks with a wry smile, it isn't worth contemplating. At this rate, these mortals around him will last longer than he and whatever influences, ideas, thoughts, and memories of his ever will. He is not one to talk about permanence.

"Excuse me?"

Loki walks on, aimlessly.

"Hey—sorry, wait—"

He feels a hand upon his arm. He jerks suddenly and turns around, ready to glare down whoever thought it necessary to bother him.

He feels the blood rush from his head.

_She_ is standing before him, toting a large messenger bag of God knows what. _She_ had touched his arm and stopped him in his steps and _she_ has reminded him why, why, why he should have never come to Earth, never left Asgard, why he should have just waited to snuff it on some abandoned moon where he wouldn't have to be reminded.

He almost blurts out her name, until he forces himself to choke on it.

"Sorry," Jane Foster says. She is breathless, her hair tied back and her eyeliner smudged. "Sorry—I'm looking for the Alumni Hall. Can you help me?"

Loki realizes that he is not breathing. He sucks in a sharp breath, his head spinning. He thinks to back away, because if Jane is here—if Jane is at this very place then would Thor—?

At the thought of seeing Thor—_seeing Thor—_he feels that scar on his chest burn until it feels as if fire is consuming his entire body.

"I'm afraid not," Loki finds himself saying. He is glad for his ability to say complete rubbish when his mind has promptly switched off. "I don't know this place well myself."

"Oh, are you a freshman?" says Jane.

Loki nods. He has no idea what that is.

"Sorry, then," Jane says. She runs a worried hand over her forehead, glancing around. "I'm just…wow, I _definitely_ knew where it was only a week ago when I was meeting with the headmaster, but now…"

Loki is tied to the spot with stone roots. He urges himself to lift his feet, to keep walking, to _leave her_, but he cannot. Suddenly all those times he swore to himself that Loki of Asgard is dead, that the past is gone and cut off from him, are completely reduced to ashes.

"—just remember it being somewhere on this side of campus." She is still talking and he didn't even realize it. Loki clears his throat.

"Are you visiting?" he says, because he thinks it might be too obvious if he upright asks what the hell she is doing here, wherever they are. Because of all the universities in all the realms, they both just have to walk into the same one.

"I'm speaking. I'm a guest speaker," she says. And under a breath, she says, "But I'm also an idiot."

Well, that much isn't hard to figure out. He ought to walk away right now, walk and pretend he never saw her, pretend he never recognized her because he _shouldn't_, that part of him is long dead twice now, but instead, he says—

"Oh, I remember. The professor had mentioned that earlier."

Jane's eyes light up, and he knows immediately that was a wrong answer.

"You're in the lecture?" she says. "That's great! Are you into astrophysics then?"

If Jane is an idiot, then Loki is a fool, which he has long already known by now. Why is he not gone already?

"I think it an interesting study," says Loki.

"It's fascinating," Jane says. "Oh, I really hope you enjoy it." Her eyes wander and she lets out a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God, it's over there. I can't believe I missed it. I have to get there early to prepare, so—so I'll see you later? I'm Jane Foster by the way."

She holds out her hand. Loki nearly gives a small bow out of habit. He has no idea how to respond in a way that doesn't scream that he has no idea why she is holding out her hand.

"Th—my name is Thaniel," says Loki. He does not know where this name comes from.

He takes her hand—it seems the logical thing to do. When she shakes it, he cannot help but question the point of it.

"I'll see you later then, okay?" she says.

She waves and hurries off to whatever direction this Alumni Hall is. Loki is just seconds away from ripping off this façade, ripping a passageway out of Midgard to anywhere else but here—Niflheim, Jotunheim, anywhere—but before he can flee, before he can forfeit, he asks himself something that makes his blood go still.

Would Thor be there?

He shouldn't care. Watching Jane's retreating back, he _should not care_ if Thor will be at her lecture today or surfing the stars near Alfheim or alive or dead or anything at all. Because Thor thinks he is dead and it is going to _stay that way_ until that lie is truth, and it should not affect Loki that this will be so.

Would he see Thor if he went?

_Don't_, he urges himself. _Don't you dare. In a week's time, a month's, a year, it will not matter. _

(Would he see his brother again if he tried?)

An hour and a half later, Loki finds himself in the back of a lecture hall, digging his nails into his arms as if that could discipline him after making this decision.

He is barely listening to Jane as she speaks—for a Midgardian scientist, she's not too far from the point as she describes the theories and the physics of the stars. Some points are hazy in accuracy, but one needs to actually behold the stars to understand it in full. But her words are familiar, as if he is recalling an old story read to him before bedtime. They make him think of Asgard, and he flinches.

He searches the lecture room for a familiar blond head. When he realizes what he is doing, he doesn't try to stop himself.

She's still speaking, something about radioactive decay. This feels like a dream. He had hoped he would never see her again.

(Thor isn't here)

She's drawing on the board now. He wonders if she would even know where Thor is. If Thor is with her or with his human companions that he is so fond of. If Thor is on Midgard at all. If they share a home together by now, or he had escorted her here, or—

Loki _doesn't care_.

These months of whatever this is—life before death, purgatory, condemnation before final peace—are not to be spent wondering about a brother who no longer exists. After a thousand years of life, Loki has no time to let the past slowly dwindle when there is a universe to disturb, a mad titan to defy.

(_It's all right_, he remembers Thor saying, and it felt as if the pain was powerless when he heard those words)

He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until his nails rap against the table. A student casts a glance at him. Loki pulls his hands off the table and onto his lap.

"Even though it's still in its infancy," says Jane. He forgets she is speaking, and not a figment of his conflict. "The measuring of neutrino detectors can reveal the nuclear reactions in our stars, and in due time in the future, we can get a wondrous view of our universe. Any questions?"

She isn't exactly _charismatic_, for Loki's tastes. Obviously Thor has not fallen for her charming tongue, or at least, not when she uses it for speaking.

He pictures himself standing and asking, where is my brother? But he doesn't know if he wants to know the answer, if he would even dare to ask.

She answers questions fluidly, easily addressing the concerns and curiosities of the students. Loki, because he loves to push his luck, raises his hand. Her eyes land on him and they brighten with recognition. He knows his disguise holds true, because no one ever looks upon him like that with so much pleased eagerness.

He asks a question. It is generic, and he already knows the answer (the answer is, no). She readily launches into a long explanation of how the answer is, maybe, in the future, in due time, it is possible. She says something encouraging—a new generation of scientists will use neutrino astronomy to search for potentially life-bearing solar systems beyond the galaxies, there is nothing stopping them—as if she's trying to keep afloat a student's dreams of discovering Valhalla with photons. Somehow, mortals and their limited time think anything is possible if they're not alive to doubt it a century down the line.

The professor thanks Jane and dismisses the class. A gaggle of students hang behind to talk longer with Jane, towering over her short stature. Loki remains seated, trying to breathe steadily.

He should leave. He doesn't. He feels as if he is waiting—the way his stomach churns and curdles, the way his skin feels tight that any movement might rip it—but he doesn't know what he is waiting for. Perhaps for Jane to lift her eyes to him again and stop in mid-sentence. For the doors to open and a certain someone comes to walk Jane back home. For some familiarity that Loki does not want to find, and yet he sits there holding his breath for it to happen.

A wave of lightheadedness washes over him. He closes his eyes and rests his fist against his forehead. He can almost feel his skin paling underneath his visage, so sickly it blushes grey.

He unconsciously puts a hand to his chest and grimaces. He can feel the faint, unfamiliar magic thrumming under his fingertips. It feels like a maggot, sucking him dry, foreign, parasitic, and his fingers are hungry to dig deep and rip it out, if only they could. If only he could, he would just topple dead as he should right here in this lecture hall, and if his visage disappears—if Jane looks up again and sees the man who by rights should have been dead several months ago freshly deceased in her hall—he wouldn't care. He'd be too busy in Hel, or Valhalla, to care.

(Except she would run to Thor with a story on her lips, and Thor would be so, so _angry_—)

Loki opens his eyes and stands up. He should have never come to Midgard to reopen wounds (not wounds, he is not hurt, he is not affected—). He only has Norns know how much time left and if he wants to ruin Thanos' ploy, if he wants to twist the world the way he wants just because he _wants_ it that way, he cannot dawdle here and wait to be reluctantly found. He moves toward the door, only to stumble to a stop when Jane reaches it at the same time as he.

"Hi, Thaniel," she says. She grins. "How'd you like it? Was it interesting?"

"Certainly," he says with ease. He hates her. This disguise is growing weary, and he wants to leave _now_, and he hates her. "You did a great job. Thank you for speaking."

"Thank you for listening," she says. "I only saw five people dozing off this time—that's two less than my last lecture! Oh—" She blushes and gives a nervous chuckle. "I mean—I'm not trying to criticize your classmates or be sarcastic. I'm actually really thankful for that."

He hides a snort. She looks up at him with a far too cheery disposition.

"Do you think you'd ever consider going into neutrino astronomy?" she says. "Or astrophysics as an official major?"

He almost says no, just to spite her. But then she might remember him more clearly for being that one student who doesn't. He needs to be as bland and as inconspicuous as possible, so he can run from this place, and regret later for coming.

(and regret later for not staying)

"Perhaps," he says. "It's interesting. I'd like to study it."

"I actually dabble in that in my research," says Jane. "Sometimes I have internships too. Well—my only position is right now taken up, but you know, I can actually broaden it. It isn't like Darcy does any actual research."

"Sorry?" says Loki.

"I'd love to help you figure out what you want to do with your college career and stuff if you're considering astrophysics," says Jane. "You know, be a resource, answer questions—like the professors. How about we meet up for coffee? I've got some connections, you know—networking. You're a freshman, but you can start early."

"I—"

This is the opposite of what Loki wants. But she's already reaching into her messenger bag and pulling out a small rectangle of thick paper.

"Here's my business card—for my phone number," she says. "But how about this coming Friday at, say, noon?"

"Perhaps," says Loki.

He doesn't understand why he doesn't just say _no_. Nevertheless, Jane grins as he gingerly takes the business card.

"Thank you," he says uncertainly.

"Of course," she says. "I love to see more people getting into the field." She checks her watch and jumps. "Oh, I have to run. I'll see you Friday then—that cute one on Southampton Road, how about? Free State or something. You know that one, right? I'm not native here."

"Mm," Loki says.

"Great," Jane says. "Okay, I really need to run. I've got to meet somebody."

She waves at him and rushes out the door. Loki wonders for half a moment if that somebody is Thor.

He hates her. Hates her for insisting. Hates himself for not resisting. He needs to _leave_.

But where would he go?

He feels the grey seeping through his skin—spider web veins as if his blood is paling. He doesn't have the time to sit around with Thor's mortal for a cup of coffee, whatever that is. He doesn't have _time_.

He realizes this is the closest he has come to Thor in all these months, because of _her._

He looks down at the stiff business card. In a swift motion, he crumples it in his hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks so much for returning for a fourth chapter! This chapter, I am very eager to show you guys, and hopefully you will come back for more :). Any confusion that might arise, fear not; it shall be addressed later in the story.**

* * *

"I don't know why you insist on doing this," Sif says.

Thor smiles wryly, still not looking at her. He cuts a sliver off an apple with a paring knife and puts it in his mouth. The juice is warm and plentiful—he thinks of autumn.

"I am not surprised," he says.

Sif opens her mouth, then closes it. She watches him carefully, hand still gripping the bough of the willow tree. They are in Frigga's old gardens; the servants must still take care of it because the leaves are cleanly swept, the weeds perfectly absent. The flowers still in full bloom.

It smells like Frigga. Thor takes in a breath.

"I wonder," says Sif, "if you think I disagree because I do not also mourn."

Thor turns to her. Her dark eyes scrutinize him, challenging him to contradict. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

"Do you?" says Thor.

Sif's jaw tenses. Thor slices off another wedge and chews on it slowly. No sound comes between him and Sif except the soft trickle of the fountain, and the young birdsongs. Sif looks out toward the flowerbeds. The hyacinths sway; their violet heads are so heavy that they almost droop to the ground.

His journey to Asgard will be a brief one. He misses home, but he cannot stand it. Once he heard from Heimdall that the disturbance in the skies was what seemed like the effects of a tussle of galactic forces beyond Yggdrasil, though interestingly enough involving familiar names such as Amora and Nebula, he tells himself not to try any more. He is a prince, but all he has the energy for now is to be a fool who doesn't know how to stop grieving.

"What can I say?" she says. "I thought him dead once already. And now you say it again, and again we have no body to place in the frigate."

"Death does not have to have a body," Thor says.

"I know that," says Sif.

She stalks off, rubbing her forearm as if her skin stings. She stops by the small stone fountain, shoulders thrown back and braced as if she is walking to her public execution, and yet she holds her chin high to hide how they tremble.

Thor drives the paring knife into the tree. He tosses the apple to her—she catches it over her shoulder without even looking at him. He cannot help but smile.

"You have been well trained," he says.

"Your brother made sure of that after years of tricks," she says.

Thor doesn't know why he is so soft, that the thought of Loki still bruises him even after months. He kneels by Frigga's flowers, running a calloused finger over the delicate stems. He remembers Loki hiding in them when they used to play here—sometimes Loki would jump out at Thor when Thor passed unknowingly, and they would tumble through the grasses and shriek with laughter. Amazing that Loki was once so small that he could crouch unseen here—he must have once been so, so small.

"I feel numb," Sif says.

Thor looks to her. She still has not taken her eyes off of the gurgling waters. Her fingernails dig into the ruddy skin of the apple.

"We find out that he is alive after a year of thinking him dead," says Sif, "and a year later he is dead again." She smiles wryly. "Of all the people in the world, it would be him who would frustrate us like this about something that should be so damn simple."

"He died to save my life," says Thor.

"You do not have to defend him to me, Thor," says Sif. "I know."

Thor squeezes the stem between his finger and thumb. It snaps easily, and the hyacinth curves to the ground. He catches it before any petals shake.

"Was I the one who told you what had happened?" Thor says. The week after Malekith, after Frigga, after Loki, are blurred.

"The All-Father did," says Sif. "After he released us from our arrest. About Loki—and Kurse."

Thor tries to remember if he had relayed all that to his father before going to Midgard to catch his breath. He can't exactly remember. He plucks another hyacinth from the bed, and another. They are downy like bird feathers; he expects them to flutter out of his reach.

"And how did you feel?" says Thor.

Sif closes her eyes, then opens them again.

"I told him that if he betrayed you I would kill him," she says.

"So did I," says Thor.

"Now I feel like a fool," she says.

Thor smiles wryly. He cups his hand so that the hyacinths can rest their heads in his palm.

"How long has Father been in the Odinsleep?" says Thor. He reaches to pluck the lilies into his hands as well—a quiet, butter yellow that reminds him of Frigga's hair.

"Since a month after you left for Midgard," says Sif. "It was very sudden. He must have known it was coming—he prepared for the sleep before anyone knew."

Thor nods. "I'm not surprised. He has done many changes in Asgard since I left." He faces the sky. "I felt it the moment I stepped out of the Observatory. As if a new heart's blood pumps life through her veins."

"Drastic new policies," says Sif. "New approaches to rebuilding. Though, Asgard hasn't been attacked at home before. It puts things into perspective." She smiles wryly. "Hopefully Tyr can keep up as regent."

"I'm glad you are no longer in prison, then," Thor says.

"It would have been worth it, if it helped you," says Sif.

The flowers are heavy in his hands. He looks to Sif, who takes a smarting bite of his apple. It is always hard to tell how her heart beats when she tries to smother it with armor.

"Do you think these are fine enough?" Thor says.

He holds up the flowers. Sif kneels beside him, running a finger over the dark violet petals.

"Loki always liked these best," Sif says. "And your mother would love these lilies. You've picked the finest of them all."

Whether or not he actually did, Thor doesn't know. Still, he smiles, holding them gingerly, afraid that a tight grip will suffocate them.

When he rises to his feet, Sif looks up to him.

"Will you be alone?" she says.

"Yes," he says.

She nods. When she rises, she puts a ginger hand on Thor's arm.

"I can feel the weight of your guilt just standing next to you," she says.

Thor does not take his eyes off of the flowers. Her hand makes his skin itch, and he wishes he was alone.

"Oh, Thor," Sif says. "You carry so many burdens. You needn't carry the dead."

"You do not understand," Thor says.

Frigga was Thor's mother. Loki was Thor's little brother. And they were both killed because Thor couldn't protect them.

"Do not break your own heart even more," Sif says.

Her hand lingers, but she hesitates and lets it fall away. Thor turns away because for a moment he just doesn't know what to say.

"You are kind to me, Sif," says Thor.

"This isn't kindness," says Sif.

Thor tries not to clench his hand into a fist. He almost crushes the downy heads of those lilies.

When Thor leaves the gardens, Sif does not follow. He pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and climbs onto his horse to ride toward the shores. No one bothers him or tries to stop him. Thor knows that he is still a prince of Asgard even if he has denied the throne, knows that he still has duties to his people, but he wishes nothing more than to be left alone and away from Asgard. He doesn't even want to see his slumbering father. He just wants to sleep.

The ride to the shores is a lonely one. Thor used to always hate riding alone—he would drag anyone to come riding with it, let it be Loki or Hogun or even the stable boy. Now this solitude is commonplace.

He is careful not to let the flowers jostle too much in his hand.

When he reaches the shore, it is nearly sundown. The sun is bleeding onto the water, her red blood dyeing the horizon. Clouds are edging forward, ready to swallow Asgard whole. It will be a starless night; still, Thor hopes that his well-wishes will make it to Valhalla.

He slides off his horse and takes off his boots. The sand is soft under his feet; he feels like he is sinking with each step. He remembers in his youth how he begged Odin to let him play in the beaches—it would be so much fun and it is so _hot_, _please, _Father—but Odin refused him. These are the shores for the dead, son, he had said. Do not dishonor our warriors with your horseplay.

Thor is glad now that he did not disobey.

The waters are cold, slipping between his toes. He feels their gentle pull drag along the sands, making him sink softly, slowly, as if it is quicksand under his feet and the only way to not drown is to stay absolutely still—to give up.

(_Come with me, Thor_, Loki once said, and he pulled on Thor's hand, dragging him as his little legs ran. _Come where, _Thor asked, and Loki kept pulling him forward until Thor nearly tripped over his own feet, and he laughed and said, _You'll see, it's a surprise, you'll see—_)

Thor smiles wryly as the shoreline ebbs and flows, trying to pull him into its body. Loki's grip is ever present, even now.

He bends down and places the flowers on the waters. For the most part, they float, skimming the tired waves. Some petals are already askew, sprinkling the ocean like purple foam. The lilies spin, like a world on its axle.

Thor imagines Frigga pinning the lily in her golden hair. He imagines Loki reaching down from Valhalla and plucking the flower from the ocean. They are not alone—Loki is not afraid.

Thor's nose stings.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, waiting for the ocean to finally tug him forward until he falls face-first into the water and drowns. He is so tired he can sleep right here, and if the ocean takes him, then he can't stop it.

Finally, when the petals are all dispersed and the flowers waterlogged and out of sight, he wanders back to the sands. His horse is keeping itself occupied in the patches of dry grass above the dunes. When Thor approaches it, it raises his heads and gives a little huff, nuzzling its large nose against Thor's forehead. Thor runs his hand over its white mane.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go back home."

He doesn't know where that is anymore.

* * *

There had been many times in Loki's life when someone, usually Odin or Thor or one of their acquaintances, would stare at Loki long and hard before shaking their head and say, "I understand absolutely nothing about you."

Normally they meant it as a jest, or Loki had tried to take it as such at the time, but now Loki finds legitimacy in their confession because he is sitting in a tea house with Jane Foster and not understanding himself in the slightest.

His hair is as red as before, though he feels the strain of the visage on his magic that is already being enough of a bastard of keeping him breathing. He highly doubts Jane would find anything amiss, except for the fact that he clearly wants out.

Jane is stirring her coffee cup, blissfully unaware.

"So what are you most interested in, Thaniel?" she says.

Her eyes are shining and excited to share her wisdom, which is laughable considering her wisdom is merely a half a year of childhood tutoring to Loki. He smiles nonetheless, trying to ignore that aching pulse he feels in his magic. It feels like a stomachache, the kind that wishes he could lie down and curl up on his side.

"I'm interested in understanding what's beyond us," he says. It sounds vague enough. "Especially space. I think it's fascinating that there are just—so many things happening that's outside of our reach. That our world is by far not the only interesting thing in the universe."

Jane nods. "Right? It's like—wow, this universe is _endless_ and there are so many possibilities. There could be supernovas going on right now and we can't see it, but it's still happening. There could be—life on other planets that we can't reach."

Loki's eyebrow twitches.

"Do you think so?" he says.

Jane opens her mouth, then closes it. He swallows down the urge to laugh.

"It's possible," says Jane. "Very possible. It's such a wide universe, after all." She clears her throat. "So what got you into it, out of curiosity?"

Her attempt to maneuver conversation inconspicuously is pathetic, but Loki figures he can tease that annoyance in her eventually.

"I don't know. There wasn't a specific event," Loki says. Creating personas is far from difficult. He has spent most of his life keeping up a front as practice. "I was always asking questions about how the universe worked. About the stars. How they come to be."

Jane smiles. "That's kind of the same with me. When I was little, my dad used to always tell me about the constellations instead of old bedtime stories. He'd sit me down by the bedroom window and show me the constellations and tell me those stories, and I was hooked ever since."

"Is he a scientist as well?" says Loki.

Jane's smile softens. "Well, he was. He passed away when I was younger."

Loki hadn't known that. He wonders why it is making a difference to him.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says fluidly.

"Thanks. It's fine. I mean—I'm fine now," she says. She shakes her head. "Anyway, my dad—he helped me get started with the whole research thing. You know, it's really hard for women to come into this field, if not uncommon, but he never discouraged me. He kept supporting me all the way through. It was crazy tough, but…"

Loki's smile tastes bitter.

"But that's an old person's story," Jane says, raising the coffee cup to her lips. "This is about you. What questions do you have for me? I can tell you anything about the field, or opportunities, or how to get started—all that."

_Is Thor okay_, Loki wants to ask.

_Where is he now? _

_Is he all right?_

Loki tries to squelch that sentimentality in him like a slug. He isn't here to entertain an ended brotherhood. He doesn't know why he is here at all.

_Does Thor still mourn_, he almost asks.

He knows he cannot know the answer.

"There are so many questions," Loki says with a perfected abashed smile. "I'm not sure where to start."

Jane laughs. Loki's stomach turns again. He feels lightheaded.

He's starting to doubt that even with this _situation_ he is in, his magic acting up is external.

"Tell me about your field in particular," he says. "What have you researched? Discovered?"

Jane blinks. Loki feels as if he is playing a game with himself—how closely can he get Jane to talk of Thor without him directly asking.

"Well, I study a lot about Einstein-Rosen bridges," says Jane. "Wormholes, in laymen's terms."

"And where has that led you?" says Loki.

"New Mexico," Jane says with a chuckle.

What a pathetic answer, thinks Loki. He wonders why she doesn't tell the world about the different realms, the Bifrost, everything she has seen. She would garner fame, acclaim, _respect_, and it isn't like Midgard could do any harm to any of the other realms if they knew of their existence. What secret was she trying to protect?

"And did you find anything in New Mexico?" says Loki.

"That was when I developed my theory," says Jane. "The Foster Theory, if you ever heard of it. Not sure if they're teaching that in universities yet…or if it's widespread at all. Or if anyone even believes it outside of me."

Loki feels his aching fall in sync with a strange thrumming. As if the world is balanced precariously on the tampered strings of a lute. He rubs his forehead, trying to will his magic into a slow and steady flow. Whatever this is has nothing to do with the laughably cauterized wound in his chest. Something is stirring beyond him.

He takes it as a premonition, and maintains his blasé smile.

"When was this?" he says.

"Two years ago," says Jane. "So it's circulating throughout the science community, I would say. Um, not sure if you would hear about it. I've been sort of on a—what do you call it—a furlough, for the past two years."

Loki wonders if that had anything to do with Thor. If that was the case, then he hopes to the Norns that they are not similar in _that_ aspect.

"And you're back in now?" says Loki.

"More or less," says Jane. "I haven't picked up research again yet, but I'm not retired or anything—are you all right?"

Loki stiffens.

"What do you mean?" he says.

"Sorry," says Jane. "You just looked sort of uneasy all of a sudden."

Loki smiles wider. The thrumming grows stronger. He thinks he can see the sun grow heavy.

"I'm fine," he says.

Will she see Thor after this?

If only his mind would stop _wandering_ back to that subject.

"Okay," says Jane. "Just checking. You don't have to be nervous, if you are."

He laughs. Him, nervous? He doesn't remember the last time he felt nervous. Fear, maybe. Shame, fear, anger, distress, despair. Not nerves.

"Thank you," he says. He clenches his hand to keep it from shaking. His breath is hitching again; he wants to slap himself for not being able to contain his misfortune for one hour. "So what are your apprenticeship opportunities you were talking about?"

"Internships?" says Jane. "Well, technically right now I only have one position available, and it's filled."

Loki lets his face comically fall. Jane quickens to fix her answer.

"But—well, she isn't much of a research intern. More like a PA. She isn't even an astrophysics major. So, you know, I haven't really considered adding another intern to the mix because I'm not exactly researching right now, but you know what? Give me your contact info and if I hear of any, or if I actually open one up, I can go to you."

Loki's smile fossilizes. She digs out a pen from her pocket and takes a napkin from the dispenser, pushing them toward him. He stares at it.

"Sorry, what do you want from me?" he says.

"Your cell number. Or your email address. Either will do," says Jane.

Either of those terms flies right over Loki's head. He takes the pen uncertainly.

His chest clenches and he tries to hide a gasp of pain. His heart is failing again, and the pain makes his head spin. His magic writhes in his bones and it takes tremendous willpower not to double over. Loki bites his lip, the half-ghosts of the wound that killed him returning like a warning.

Jane immediately frowns.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she says.

Loki is sure that he is not. He sets the pen down; his hand is shaking.

"Sorry," he says. "I don't feel—"

Someone screams. Loki turns sharply toward the window. The sky darkens like a violent bruise in less than a second before flashes of light twist themselves in the air. He can barely see beyond the haze—pain makes him relive dying.

The patrons of the shop rush to the windows, jabbering uselessly and excitedly to each other. Jane too cranes her neck to look out the window. Her jaw drops.

"Oh my God," says Jane. "Oh my God—is that a supernova?"

_It's the consequences of my good work_.

Unwoven light bursts through the dark clouds that weren't there fifteen minutes ago. At the presence of those lights, Loki's senses are suddenly thrown into high definition. He recognizes it—Amora's magic smashing against Nebula's power crushing Ronan the Accuser's fighting against—

"Look!" Jane points toward the glass. "It's growing bigger—whatever it is is getting bigger."

The lights stretch until it is a churning ball of mass power. Loki can hear it howling.

"No, it's not," Loki says.

Jane turns to Loki, flabbergasted.

"It's getting closer," he says.

Before Jane could open her mouth, Loki wraps an arm around her shoulder and hauls her away from the window. The moment he pushes her out of the way the glass shatters. Hot, rushing air fills the shop, scorching their skin. People scream. Loki shields Jane with his body. The wound on his back protests the exposure to the magical aftermath.

Damn Amora, damn Nebula, damn them all. Perhaps it is Loki's doing, but they could just learn to keep their tantrums to _themselves_.

"What's going on?" Jane says. Her voice is scratched and loud above the commotion. "What's happening?"

Loki shakes broken glass off of himself. He looks over his shoulder, trying to see through his tumultuous senses. The other people are picking themselves off the ground, shaking but otherwise unharmed.

"Thor?" Jane says.

Loki's heart stops and he stands, searching. But there is no Thor—maybe he misheard. Or maybe Jane just relates anything she does not understand to his brother.

That moment of hesitation is enough for him to not notice the second wave of excess magic barrel in. It knocks him straight in the chest. His heart screams and he is slammed back against the wall. He tastes blood in the back of his throat.

"Thaniel!" says Jane.

Loki almost forgets to acknowledge that he is still alive. He pushes himself back onto his feet, breathing heavily. The screams are _jarring_.

"Is something attacking us?" Jane says. She scrambles onto her feet. "Is it—?"

His brother's name is on her lips. She rushes out the door before Loki can stop her, because for some reason when danger strikes running _towards_ it is perfectly reasonable to her. Loki grits his teeth. He had tugged along the patience of Ronan from afar, twisted Amora's logic invisibly, ruffled the cohesion of anyone that could be in the league of Thanos until they warred amongst each other and broke whatever synergy they threatened to pose if Thanos wheedles them into his allegiance—but for Norn's sake they could keep their mutiny to themselves and _not_ let the excess of their disputes fly aimlessly into other realms.

He rushes out to follow Jane. The streets are scorched, sooty black, trees and lampposts snapped in two. Automobiles are half-melted. It's almost ridiculous how easily this realm is hurt by mere _accidents_.

"Jane!" Loki finds himself calling for her. What he wants, why, he has no idea. "_Jane_!"

He doesn't know where Thor is. Doesn't know how he is doing, doesn't know how he is feeling. But Loki knows one thing, and that is if Jane gets herself into any more harm Thor will rage like a berserker.

She stands in the centre of the streets as people scramble for shelter. The skies are churning with unnatural power, sending walls of wind to nearly knock down the buildings. She still does not move, craning her neck to watch, _searching_.

"Jane!" says Loki.

She does not turn back. Damn her, no wonder she had the Aether inside of her if she is so _stupid_.

The sheer amount of excess magic from the faraway battle between all those sorcerers nearly drives Loki down to his knees. He puts a hand to his chest. He almost thinks he feels the blood flowing again.

"Get out of there!" Loki says.

It's the last remnants of magic hurling toward Midgard, but Loki can feel its power crushing his bones before it touches him. He can barely hear his own voice yell. But Jane just _stands there_, as if this wouldn't kill her.

It _burns_.

He runs forward. He doesn't know if he will reach her in time. He knows he cannot die from this, not when Kurse's blade has already claimed his death. But he doesn't know if he can get Jane out of here in time.

Jane must be realizing just how dangerous the massive wave of energy is. She is backing away, hand held up as if that is enough to protect herself from being scorched.

Loki draws the last of his magic welled up inside of him. Whatever is used to maintain his disguise flickers; darkness bleeds into his reddened hair. The emptiness is agonizing.

The moment she turns her face towards him, he runs into her. He wraps his arm around her and just before the powerful mass of energy can disintegrate them, he forces them to teleport.

Painful. Burning. Draining. He doesn't have enough energy to carry them both. It's like diving into fire. He screams. His chest feels like it is about to explode, and he wonders—really—can he not die any other way than how he has already been killed?

He only makes it halfway. He doesn't even know where he is taking them, so long as it is _away_. He meant to take them to the lecture hall, the only place he can recall—instead, they rematerialize in a cold, dank garage, crashing into the cement and skidding into the stone wall.

Every part of him aches; he feels his disguise flake away entirely. He can hardly see and his head and chest _hurt_.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears that power drill into the pavement, several more yells—and then calm.

And Jane's ragged breathing.

Loki feels blindly for her. He cannot see. He grabs desperately at his magic to pull back his disguise again, his safety, his shield. The moment he tries to tug it out of him, it feels as if he is digging a claw inside of him and pulling out his innards. It takes all of whatever strength he has left to keep his invisible cloak about him from Heimdall's view.

He claps a hand over his chest. He feels his heartbeat shudder.

He realizes he cannot hear himself breathing.

_Thor—_

(I'm a fool, I'm a fool—)

He hears Jane's disbelieving voice say, "_Loki_?" before he knows nothing more.


	5. Chapter 5

**So I made a mistake in the previous chapter that I have rushed to correct-I made Jane say that both her parents had died, but Donna Rose has pointed out that in Thor 2 Darcy casually mentions knowing where Jane's mother lives, implying that Jane's mother is alive. So please disregard what Jane said about her parents both being dead...t'is just her father. Thank you and enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

_Shit_.

Jane doesn't know if she must have hit her head extremely hard against the cold cement, or if the natural phenomenon outside tampered her senses, but what she is seeing right before her cannot be the truth.

_Shit, damn, hell, oh my _God—

She finds herself barely breathing. She gulps for air before nearly hyperventilating, and she has to pound her fist against her chest to keep steady.

Loki lies unmoving on the floor, looking remarkably less dead than the last time she saw him. She blinks, and blinks again—maybe the darkness of this emptied garage affects her sight. But he is there, unconscious, and _alive_.

Or, she thinks.

"Holy crap," she whispers.

This can't be happening. She saw Loki get _stabbed_ right through the chest. She saw his head fall back, watched how Thor shook and screamed and sobbed as he held Loki in his arms. Watched how his chest didn't rise, felt how his pulse was still—Loki had died, he was _gone_, and yet here he is, crumpled against a wall, after teleporting her out of the way of whatever the hell that mass was—

And then it hit her like bricks that this whole time she had a _coffee date_ with Thor's supposedly dead brother.

"Holy crap," she says again.

She puts a hand to her forehead. Unfortunately, she is completely well and completely sane, and Loki is completely in front of her and decidedly not dead.

This is a dream, but it's not. Because her knees sting from the rough landing, she feels cold, and she has had enough unbelievable events thrust upon her to doubt anymore. But never has she seen someone come back from the dead.

She suddenly thinks of Coulson, whom Thor revealed to be alive weeks ago, and her breath hitches.

"Loki?" she says.

When he remains still, she edges closer to him, hand held up in case he would suddenly sit up and lash out. What would he do if he woke? Would he attack her? Threaten her? He had just had a coffee date with her, just saved her—what would he even do to her?

It occurs to her that for all she knows, Loki could have kicked it after bringing her here. She immediately puts a hand to the hollow of his neck to feel for a pulse, because for all she knew he could be a zombie, or a dummy, or already dead.

She places her fingers upon his skin. It is cold, but she feels that flighty pulse beneath her touch—in the very place where, perhaps months ago, she had checked for a pulse and felt nothing there. She sucks in her breath.

"Loki," she says.

She shakes his shoulders. Then she slaps him across the face. He does not stir. Is he even breathing? She gulps again, and a thousand and one questions strain her mind. Questions of what the hell just happened, how exactly did teleportation work, what almost fell upon her, all of those questions pale in comparison to _what is Loki doing here?_

Jane clenches her teeth before leaning down, listening for Loki's breath. All her muscles are tense, ready to jerk back if Loki suddenly rouses and snaps at her. He is breathing—barely, weakly, but breathing. She pinches herself and lets out a small gasp at the sting.

"Okay," she breathes out. "Okay."

She hesitates before reaching out and awkwardly grabbing Loki's wrist. He is completely real at her touch—no hallucination, no mirage. She feels exactly the bone of his wrist, his skin, his weak pulse. He is _alive_.

Was he ever dead in the first place?

In a fit of confusion, of a burning need to know and of pure disbelief, she braces herself before unbuttoning Loki's shirt and praying that Thor doesn't choose _now_ to return to her unclothing his unconscious, miraculously not dead little brother.

She pulls open his shirt and sucks in a sharp intake of breath.

The deep wound in his chest, just at the sternum, looks as if it has been petrified. The skin is still ripped, the wound still so red it passes as black, and blood seems to be welling at the edges threatening to spill, stopped only by what Jane can only describe as an invisible plug. The skin around it is graying, faded at first, with spider-webbed lines of gray edging forward and draining the color from his skin. The sight of it makes Jane nearly gag—she may have a doctorate, but it takes little for her to realize that this wound is anything but healed.

She closes his shirt immediately, gasping as if she had just escaped drowning. With fumbling fingers she buttons up his shirt, even more questions arising in her mind.

"Jane, focus," she says. "_Focus._"

Her first thought is to call for Thor. If Heimdall is truly as good as they claim, he would notice this and call for Thor immediately. Thor could deal with this—this _situation_—on his own, do with it what he sees fit. Jane wouldn't have to spend any second longer _alone_ with a man who by all means and rights ought to be dead right now. She wouldn't have to be so _confused_.

But hell, what was she thinking? Loki is still wounded and unconscious, and for all she knew he could be dying from whatever came down to Earth. No way in hell is she going to call for Thor saying that his little brother whom both he and she saw die in Svartalfheim is actually _alive_ only for him to come back and find out that Loki actually ended up dead again because she was too stupid to check his wounds.

Jane's hands hover over Loki, clueless as to what to even do first. His chest is obviously unhealed, despite the months that have gone by since he was stabbed, but otherwise there is no other bleeding wound, no broken bone. She gingerly slides her hand under his head, cushioning it from the hard floor. There is no crack or lesion as far as she can feel, and Loki still does not stir.

"Loki?" she says. "Loki, can you hear me?"

Panic is seeping into her bones. She shakes his shoulder again.

_Do me a favor and don't be dead_.

Loki lets out a thin groan. Jane jerks back immediately, accidentally letting Loki's head hit the stone ground when she draws back her hand as if it burns. He winces, but doesn't open his eyes, turning slightly away from her.

Jane holds her breath, wondering if she could make it if she tries to run away. But her limbs are petrified and she can only stare and feel very cold as Loki stirs.

_How is he _alive?

A small breath escapes Loki's lips and he opens his eyes. Jane wishes immediately that she had taken the chance to run away, to hide, but she is out in the open in the empty garage in plain view, and Loki opens his eyes and looks at her.

They stay like so for a while. Loki still lying on the ground and Jane crouching near him, a hand still held aloft as if to reach out to him, or to hold up to protect herself, whichever is necessary. They keep so still that Jane wonders if Loki is dead again, and he died with his eyes open, and she is scared of nothing.

She draws in a breath and shudders.

"Well," says Loki. "Hello."

Jane opens her mouth, then closes it. That voice is undoubtedly Loki's, the very same that had shouted in that black valley of Svartalfheim, the same that still haunts Thor.

"You—" Those thousand and one questions are crammed in her mouth, trying to be the one to come out first until she is stuttering and choking. "How—? I—but you—"

Loki lets out an exasperated sigh and pushes himself into a sitting position. He winces, his hand instinctively moving toward his chest before he stops himself. Jane almost holds up a hand to help him, but she remains stock still.

"Clearly," Loki says, "words are not your forte." He smiles grimly, in spite of himself. "No wonder you and Thor are such a good _fit_."

Jane's skin burns. Her mouth feels dry, and when she blurts out her question it makes her tongue crackle.

"What are you doing here?" she says.

"Thank you for the warm welcome, it really tickles my heart," Loki says.

Jane stutters, running a hand through her hair. She doesn't understand why she isn't screaming for Thor now.

"You're supposed to be dead," says Jane. "I saw you die. We all did. You got stabbed in the chest."

"Apologies for the disappointment," Loki says. "As they say…perhaps third time will be the charm."

How is he so blasé about all this when none of this makes sense?

All of a sudden Jane remembers the reason why they are in this abandoned garage in the first place—the strange surge of unnatural energy, the force that nearly cleared the street. Her blood surges at the memory.

"What was that?" Jane says. "That whole—that _thing_ outside on the street. What the hell was that?"

"Excess magic," Loki says. "I'm afraid some intergalactic berserkers can't keep to themselves. Arguably my doing."

"What?" says Jane. She shakes her head. "No—wait—you were having coffee with me. You are supposed to be dead but instead you were having coffee with me as Than—"

She blanches. She had coffee with Loki thinking that he was an aspiring young college student, not the allegedly dead prince of Asgard. She had coffee with _Loki_.

Loki dusts off his clothes as if he had merely slid through the dirt during a football match.

"How are you alive?" she says. "And what do you want from me?"

"Why do you think I should give you the answers?" says Loki.

Jane gesticulates wildly with her hands that she has no words for.

"You—you duped me!" she says. "You duped all of us. And I had coffee with you. And you just scooped me off the ground and threw me here to avoid whatever that magic thing you said was—what do you mean that was arguably your doing?"

She glares at him, torn between annoyance and outright bewilderment. Loki still keeps a hand over his chest, over what Jane now knows is a still-ugly wound.

"Is that really a surprise?" says Loki.

"What did you do?" she says.

"I didn't expect their tussle to possibly reach Midgard, of all places," Loki says through clenched teeth. "They hardly ever come close within Yggdrasil."

"They? Who's they?" says Jane.

Loki shudders. Jane suddenly realizes, now that Loki is in the light, how sickly he looks, and guilt creeps into her.

"Are you hurt?" she says.

"Don't bother," says Loki.

"I should slap you," Jane says.

"You?" says Loki. He lets out a short bark of laughter. "What right do you have?"

"Maybe I don't," says Jane. "But on Thor's behalf I do."

At the mention of Thor, both she and Loki stiffen. She needs to call for Thor now—she has to pull him back from Asgard. Finally he will no longer have to mourn because his brother is alive—he won't have nightmares anymore, no more tears, no more pain, he would be _happy_ again.

She opens her mouth to call for Thor. Just one word for Heimdall to hear and he will be here and he will see that Loki is fine and he won't be so heartbroken anymore. Just one word—

Before she can make a sound, Loki's hand flies to her throat.

She holds her breath, eyes wide. Loki isn't strangling her, but his fingers are tight and tense and bruising her skin. She tries to swallow—his thumb forces her spittle back up her throat.

"Don't you dare," says Loki.

Jane shudders. Loki lets go of her, eyes wide and wild. Jane breathes raggedly—Thor's name is only one sound, one syllable, she could shout it in a split second before his hand can touch her—but the look in Loki's eyes, a look that is almost angry and almost _frightened_—stops her.

"You call for help," says Loki. "You call for Thor and you will regret it."

"Are you threatening me?" she says, both her courage and her fear surging.

"I'm promising you," he says.

Jane clenches her teeth to keep from being afraid. There is no condescending smirk or easy laugh on his lips. This is what frightens her even more.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she says. She desperately hopes that her voice does not shake.

"No," says Loki. "Not unnecessarily."

Jane's eyes flicker toward Loki's chest. His hand tenses unconsciously.

"What happened to you?" she says.

"Why should I tell you?" says Loki.

"I'll call Thor right now if you don't," Jane says.

It's an empty threat. She doesn't even know if Heimdall is on duty or not, or if he went off for a cheesecake break before he can hear her dial him up to haul Thor's ass down to Earth.

"Where is Thor?" Loki says.

There is desperation in his voice. Jane is nowhere near emotionally intelligent in perceiving people, but she can hear the smothered tremble in his words.

"Why do you ask?" says Jane. "Are you going to hurt him?" She bristles at the thought. "Are you going to screw him over now that you aren't dead?"

Loki's jaw tenses. The look that he gives her assures her that he is struggling not to rip her apart, verbally or physically.

"No," he says. His voice is cold. "But you will."

"What?" says Jane.

"You will if you tell him about me," says Loki.

Jane digs her fingernails into her palm.

"Why do you say that?" she says, pretending to be defiant.

"Does he mourn for me?" says Loki.

Jane clenches her teeth.

"Yes," she spits. "And yet you are just going to sit here and be totally alive and _not_ let him know about it so he'll continue breaking his own heart over your stupid self so that you can go on and break him down further and further so you can, oh, I don't know, you can kick him further while he's down and just manipulate that undeserving love of his for him—"

"No wonder you are an astrophysicist," Loki says through gritted teeth. "You love to rant on and on about things you think you are so prodigious in when in fact you know absolutely nothing about it."

Jane strikes Loki in the chin. He jerks back, hitting the wall behind him. The blow is enough to make Jane's knuckles sore, but she doesn't care.

The punch echoes throughout the garage. At first there is silence that follows—that and Jane and Loki's breathing that makes them sound like the only unfortunate survivors of an apocalypse in this empty place.

Until Loki's sharp laughter cracks through the silence. Jane tries not to cringe.

"Are you ever going to not greet me with that, Jane Foster?" he says.

"Why are you here?" Jane says. She tries to swallow down her anger; it's as burning as attempting to down an entire bottle of Hennessy in one go. "What did that magic thing have to do with you?"

"If you didn't catch it the first time," says Loki, "several berserkers, for a lack of better words, had a bit of a tussle beyond the galaxy. Ronan, Nebula, some prominent Kree—apparently one of them had terrible aim, and what was left of their blow after traveling all the way to Midgard nearly disintegrated you."

"How do you know this?" says Jane. She raises her voices and takes everything she can to not squeak.

"Because I pulled the strings to get them to battle amongst each other in the first place," Loki says. "Without them even knowing I was there at all, might I add."

Jane be damned if she didn't hear a hint of pride in his voice. She doesn't know why she is complying to his will.

"Why?" she says. She wants to run away from him—and she cannot stay away. "Why do all that? Why are you here?"

"Why all the questions?" Loki says.

"Because you were dead," says Jane. "And now you're alive and apparently starting some intergalactic version of high school drama that nearly got me killed."

"Nobody asked you to stand out in the open in the pathway of an energy vortex."

Jane opens her mouth, then closes it. Loki lowers his voice. Something about it sends shivers down Jane's spine.

"Trust me, Jane Foster," he says. "If the exiled sorcerers of these realms fought with each other rather than against each other, your realm would suffer far, far worse."

"And where does that put you?" Jane says, her nails digging deeper.

Loki smiles wryly.

"I am their perpetrator," he says.

"So—is that all you want?" Jane says. "You stir up crap without people even realizing that you're alive and cause chaos? Is that all you want?"

"Is it chaos?" Loki says. "Is it?"

Jane swallows hard. Loki raises his chin—just that movement makes her feel terribly small.

"I cause _change_, Jane Foster," says Loki. "I hold the fate of the nine realms—perhaps even all of the universe—in my hands in ways you cannot even imagine. Thanos' path to his corrupted destruction now depends on _me_ to rise or fall. The balance of Asgard has been determined by _me_. And this is all in my palm without me even revealing my face."

"And that's good to you?" Jane says. She clenches her teeth. "Faking your death, making your brother lose his mind over you—that's all fine so long as you're the kid with the big toy box?"

"I faked nothing," Loki says, his eyes sharpening.

"Fine, you can take _that_ off your list of sins," Jane says. "Forget that you're alive and well and you're stirring up trouble for—for God knows _why_. Is this why you won't let Thor know? So that you can harass him?"

"You've never experienced it, have you?" Loki says. He leans in closer, lips barely moving. "You never had the ability to change anything, to affect existence, to tip over the one domino that led to a chain reaction that has the power to create and destroy. When thought alive, I was confined to the purpose of being Asgard's prisoner and prince. But dead, I am free to have no purpose and all purpose. I am a giant."

"A giant?" says Jane.

"When giants breathe, they make whirlwinds," says Loki. "When giants speak, mountains shake. Giants can change the world by just taking a step."

"When giants fall, they make the world crumble," Jane says. "Thor's world."

Loki says nothing. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow.

"He will be _lost_ otherwise," says Loki.

"He's lost already because of you," Jane says. She fights the urge to grab Loki by the shoulders and shake him. "He's completely crushed already, what more do you want from him?"

"Do you think I want to destroy him still?" says Loki.

"Yes," says Jane.

"Just because I am not dead yet?" says Loki.

Jane presses her lips together.

"I'm doing him a charity," says Loki.

"Do you really believe that?"

Loki does not move. He turns to look out the small opening in the wall that lets in the light. He looks sickly, as if he is turning into stone.

"How did you survive?" says Jane.

"That's enough now," says Loki. "Where is Thor?"

"Why should I tell you?" says Jane.

"Because I will not see him either way," says Loki.

"I won't let you hurt him as invisibly as you screwed over others," says Jane.

Loki laughs at her.

"According to you," says Loki, "I already have."

He rises to his feet. He sways slightly, a hand placed against the wall to keep steady. Jane scrambles to her feet as well.

"Where are you going?" she says.

"To continue my good work," says Loki.

He turns to her. His green eyes are almost intoxicating in a way that puts Jane on a hold, to freeze and hold her breath, waiting until her insides churn.

"You will not tell Thor about me. About any of this," Loki says. "I know it."

"What makes you say that?" says Jane.

Loki raises an eyebrow. For a moment, he looks almost resigned, but Jane doesn't understand why.

"Because you care for him," he says.

Before she can say anything, he reaches into the shadows and sinks within until he is nothing, leaving her in the silent space alone.

* * *

When Jane navigated her way back to her flat from the unmarked garage, she locked herself in her apartment until Thor returns. She takes up a long loaf of French bread from her pantry when she hears the door knock, holding it over her head as if that is enough to scare off any intruder. What threat a stick of bread could possibly pose to whatever she is afraid of (Loki), she has absolutely no idea.

When she yanks the door open to see Thor on the other side she immediately tries to hide the bread behind her back. Thor raises his eyebrows at her as she opens the door wider.

"Thor!" she says. Her heart leaps into her throat. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

"It has been a Midgardian week," says Thor.

"I thought you'd be gone for two weeks," says Jane.

Thor blinks before Jane quickly ushers him inside. He looks no less tired than he did when he left for Asgard. Apparently no time spent at home was for pleasure.

"Are you all right, Jane?" Thor says.

Jane nearly drops the bread on her toes. She throws it onto the kitchen counter as if it is hot.

"Of course I'm all right," she says. "Why would you think otherwise?"

Thor blinks at her.

"Heimdall told me that the city had been hit by a magic storm," says Thor.

"Oh—right," Jane says. She clears her throat. "I'm fine. Look at me, I'm fine. I don't think anyone got hurt—just property damage."

"You're shaken," says Thor.

"I mean," Jane says, putting a kettle on the stove. "It's not every day you nearly get flooded out by magic."

She swallows hard, keeping her back turned to Thor as she tries to compose herself. She knew this moment would come—seeing Thor after finding Loki alive. She knew that she would have to face this somehow. She just wishes she is better _prepared_ for it.

She throws open her pantry and pretends she is having difficulty looking for the tea bags.

"But anyway—go sit down—how was home?" she says as she irons her thoughts out before Thor can see how truly tussled they are.

"It was good to return," says Thor. He sits down at the living room, careful not to get the floor dirty with his boots. "I had missed it."

"Mm," says Jane.

Her eyes are locked on the window that overlooks the next street. Where is Loki now? Is he even on Earth still, or is he gone, vanished, like a figment of imagination?

"And—your stars, Jane," says Thor. "They are not actually stars. They're remnants of excess magic coming from outside of Yggdrasil. Some sorcerers outside of these realms have accidentally let their magic roam too far, it seems."

"Oh, yeah," says Jane.

"You knew already?" Thor says.

"I—" Jane pauses, then mentally slaps herself. She shouldn't know, not unless _Loki_ told her, and she still doesn't know if she should remember that. "No, I was just saying that I understand what you mean. That's—that's so weird, though. I mean—does that happen often?"

"No," Thor says, turning to face her. She fiddles with the tea bags as if ripping open the packet is a struggle. "I can't imagine what caused them to fight like that, but—Jane?"

"What?" Jane says, nearly dropping the tea bags.

"The kettle is boiling," says Thor.

Jane turns off the stove and hurries to pour the water into the mugs set out on the counter. She sloppily misses and gives a small yelp.

"Are you all right?" Thor says, rising from his seat.

"I'm fine, I'm just—" Jane waves her hand as if that is enough to replace the need to actually put words to her confusion. Her stomach is churning and she refuses to look at Thor as she dips the tea bags into each mug.

Loki's face—pale, dimmed in the garage, weary but _alive_—flashes through her mind and she closes her eyes.

"Are you feeling ill?" Thor comes to the kitchen. Jane swallows down a small yelp as he puts a large but gentle hand on her forehead. "Are you sure you were not injured?"

"I'm just overreacting," Jane says. "From—from this past afternoon. It was really weird—the whole magic maelstrom thing. But no, I'm fine. Really."

Thor purses his lips. Jane takes the mugs off the counter and passes him to go to the living room.

_He needs to know_.

Jane sets the mugs on the coffee table before she could accidentally drop them. Her conscience tugs at her like an impetuous child.

_You're _lying _to him._

I didn't tell him anything, Jane fights back.

_Ninety percent of lies are silent._

She takes one of the mugs and tries to sip it to fill her mouth with tea than words. She forgets the tea is still scorching and she chokes.

"Jane," Thor says.

She sets the mug down, waving her face with her hand and shaking her head.

"That was really stupid of me," she croaks. Her throat feels like its peeling.

Thor sits down next to her and rubs her back. He treats her gently as if she is ill, in shock, except she's _not_, she's getting comforted by the man with whom she can't be _honest_, and she doesn't know why.

"Was it very frightening?" he says.

He looks at her with those honest, open eyes and she suddenly questions why she is bothering trying to hide this—why does she not tell him that his brother is alive, that his heart doesn't have to be so broken because his brother is _here_? Why is she prolonging his pain like this?

"Thor," she says. "Listen—"

(_"You will not tell Thor about me. _

_Because you care for him."_)

She freezes. Thor watches her expectantly. She sucks in a breath and her heart skips a beat.

"What is it?" says Thor.

(Are you going to hurt him?

_No. But you will._

_If you tell him._)

What did Loki _mean_ by that?

"I—" The words slip in her mouth as if they are oiled. "I, uh—look, there's—"

What if Loki was right?

What if for some reason, telling Thor about him would only hurt Thor?

_That is stupid, you don't even understand how._

She doesn't understand a lot of things, how is this any different?

_What harm would come from finding out his little brother is alive?_

But Loki said—

_He's trying to manipulate you, he's just telling you that so he can be sure you won't tell, he's making sure you do what he _wants—

(But what if Thor really does get hurt somehow?)

"I hope—I hope your time home helped you," Jane says lamely.

Her heart beats feverishly as Thor tilts his head curiously, but does not question her. She bites down on her tongue, reeling from her panicked decision. She had thought she would feel relieved after making the decision—to keep her silence, for now—but instead her mind muddles. Was that even the right choice? Why does she still not understand?

"It was good to see my friends again," says Thor. "My father is in the Odinsleep, but Tyr is a good regent and is keeping up the All-Father's newly implemented changes to rebuilding Asgard. And my friends are no longer imprisoned for treason."

"Oh, that's good," Jane says. She would have felt immensely guilty if they were still in prison for bailing her out. Not that her level of guilt has lessened, now that she stands in the way of Thor finding out about Loki, and she doesn't know why she isn't moving out of the way. "And—Asgard? Asgard's doing well?"

"Rebuilding has helped her flourish after the attack," Thor says.

He says little else about Asgard—instead, he leans back in the sofa, lips pressed together. Jane stares ahead too, turning her thoughts over and over as if to look for a loophole, something she has missed.

"Has it changed much?" says Jane, breaking the silence.

"Yes," Thor says. "It feels very different."

Something surfaces in those eyes of his, but not in the form of words. It comes and goes, as he turns to her and offers her a smile.

"How was your lecture?" he says.

"Oh—it was wonderful," she says. "It was great and the students were really receptive and a lot of them stayed back to ask me questions and—"

And one of them was your brother, Thor, one of them was your little brother and he's hiding from you and he's _alive_ and I don't know why he doesn't want you to know but I wish that you could _know_—

"That is splendid," Thor says, gripping her shoulder warmly. "I'm happy to hear."

"Thanks," Jane says. She is picking at the skin on her hand. "It was—it was really great."

Thor nods. He takes a draught of his hot tea before rising.

"Do you mind if I bathe in your home?" says Thor. "I had just returned from Asgard when I came here."

"Oh—of course, go ahead," says Jane. "You know where the extra towels are and everything, right?"

He nods, heading down the tiny hallway to the bathroom. Jane watches him disappear behind the closed door before she lets out a quivering sigh. She stays still until she hears the shower turn on, a cold sense of uneasiness settling in her stomach.

(_You won't tell Thor about this. About me._

Why?

_Because you care about him._)

"Thor, it's Loki," she whispers, so softly she can barely hear herself. "Loki's alive."

The shower batters on.

* * *

Loki still remembers how cold it felt in Svartalfheim.

Blistering cold, until he could have sworn his flesh would freeze into stone. The blood on his skin felt like ice and he couldn't move because he was so damn _cold_.

And yet he could tell he was breathing.

Which no, didn't make _sense_, because he swore he felt his heart stop, he felt his life slip away like sand sifting through fingers, felt Thor's touch fade into nothingness around him. He swore he was going to die here, because it was over, he had no more cards to play, no more traps to set. He was going to die.

He was foolish to hope it.

(There was a reason why he carried the Dark Elf grenade with him when he stabbed Kurse)

Loki stares at his reflection—he had slipped into an ornate hotel room downtown without anyone even catching a whiff of him. It isn't exactly Asgard—the suite's color scheme is a navy blue and pearly white unlike the sunny gold he grew up with, and the furniture while gilded are not massively expansive as those in his chambers, but it _almost_ reminds him of

(home)

Asgard.

The bathroom mirror holds a worn, pale wisp of a king, tossed out like a broken doll no one ever wants to keep. His shirt is off, thrown to the corner of the room. His chest is bare—if his reflection chooses now to betray him, to drive a shard of its prison into his skin, there is nothing stopping it. Except it would be futile—Loki has already been killed. He now waits to die.

The wound right in the middle of his chest is gaping, yawing. The skin looks singed, almost fraying as if he is unraveling. The blood looks as if it is frozen, and just a mite hotter and it will melt and trickle down his white skin as a red strip.

He places a finger on it. It stings. He flinches. He expects blood to kiss his fingertip, but there is none. Perhaps he still has just enough time left.

Why couldn't this all be _done_ with by now?

He lets his hand fall back to his side. His reflection is wasting away, decrepit, decaying. A shadow. He isn't going to die, he's just going to flake away.

Loki clenches his fist. Damn Kurse, damn his magic, damn the Norns for robbing him of a quick death, one where he can't even think about it before he loses his breath. Damn them all for forcing him to wait each second, each day, just _waiting_ for that wound to finish its job and let him die, let him go to Hel, wherever he deserves, and _rest_.

(_"You must hear me out, Loki," Thor had said on the slow-moving ship through Svartalfheim as they concocted their doomed plan. "You must listen to me. Don't you take on Kurse, all right? Don't fight Kurse—leave him to me. His blade will plague its victims with a slow, painful death. Stay away from Kurse—don't you _dare_ try to take him on—"_)

Oh, you fool, you didn't listen.

"I'm a fool," Loki says.

He smiles. His reflection's eyes are so tired.

"I'm a fool," he says again.

His magic flickers. Stupid, tamed magic, that which not only takes on the curse of that damned blade but thinks that it can heal him of it, only to prolong that very slow and painful death Thor has warned Loki of. That in its attempt to protect its vessel, Loki's magic only damns him to a longer dying.

_I'm a fool._

(Thor—)

Loki shoves Thor out of his mind. He has no brother to remember anymore.

(Brother—)

Loki closes his eyes. Takes in deep breaths of cold air. And then lets out a laugh, because if only everything went well he wouldn't be breathing at all now.

Is that really the best case scenario?

It is cold. He shudders. It hurts his wound.

This suite is so cavernous, and so empty.

It is so _cold_.

He imagines what it would be like if Thor is here.

No—he tries to smother that thought again, except he knows that if Thor is here it wouldn't be so cold, because it's _Thor_ and surely Thor wouldn't leave him alone anymore.

If Thor knows Loki is alive, surely he wouldn't be angry—

Loki laughs before he spits at his reflection. The spittle lands right between his reflection's eyes, oozing down and leaving a hazed streak.

(Like a child at prayer

_Pathetic_)

Loki knows the truth. If Thor finds Loki, he would look at Loki with a mixture of indignation and anger and _disgust_.

He would throw Loki down to the ground and say _WHERE IS THE TESSERACT _or whatever is the nuisance of the Nine Realms that day.

Loki would bite back and Thor would snarl because they hate each other unless they are dead and they would both wish Loki had just _stayed_ dead so that they could remember each other last as a golden idol, a figment of perfection that doesn't exist unless death puts it on an unreachable pedestal.

Loki doesn't realize he is shaking.

He tears his eyes away from his reflection and rushes out of the bathroom. For a wild, foolish moment he wants to burrow himself in the mountain of blankets in the bedroom and stay curled up underneath for a long time. He knows it won't help anything, but at least he won't be cold.

(_Loki died with honor_—)

That was one of the kindest things Loki remembers Thor ever saying about him, and Loki is supposed to be too dead to have heard it.

He smiles wryly at the memory—of Thor denying the throne of Asgard in memory of his fallen brother, of Thor declining what he had once would have clamored to claim even when unworthy because Loki had fallen for his life. Of Thor giving up what was meant to be his because of _Loki_.

Loki throws his head back and laughs. It hurts his chest, it hurts his entire damn body, but he doesn't care. Jane Foster may have claim to changing Thor's view on other races, on reclaiming his worth and humility after his brief banishment, but it is because of Loki that Thor decides to change the course of Asgard.

Loki laughs and laughs until he is coughing and hardly able to breathe. He throws himself back into a chair, limbs askew, head thrown back as he laughs until his throat burns.

_You may have changed his humility, Jane._

_But I changed his world_.

(When giants fall, the world crumbles)

He quiets, coughing on the last shreds of the fit of laughter. He stares at the patterned ceiling, breathing in, breathing out.

He can still see Thor's broken face hovering over him as he had drawn his last (or what should have been) breaths. Still see how the tears welled in Thor's eyes, how his lips trembled and that hand that held Loki had tried so hard not to shake, not to jostle Loki and cause more pain.

Can still feel Thor's hand cradle his head.

How many times will Thor watch him die?

Loki tries to smile. It hurts too much.

He's supposed to be too dead to remember this.

(When giants fall, they make the world crumble.

Thor's world)

How many times can a world fall apart before it is lifeless?

(Does he mourn?

Yes)

"What a waste," Loki whispers.

Three times, Loki knows.

Three times can a world fall apart and then be utterly ruined.

He will not do that to Thor again. No matter what Loki can think or feel, no matter how much he can convince himself that he doesn't care, or that Thor deserves it, or that it doesn't matter, or that Thor wouldn't care—he cannot do that to Thor again. No—he knows that their time in Svartalfheim is the last time Loki will ever see Thor again.

The last time Thor will have to see Loki die again.

He can still hear Thor whisper to him, _"Shh…it's okay."_

He feels so damn cold.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey all! So I've been getting a lot of questions about the significance behind the title of this story, so I thought it would be good to sort of put it out here for everyone to read.**

**Esau and Jacob are two brothers in the Bible, specifically the Book of Genesis. In the beginning, Jacob, the younger brother, tricks his older brother Esau and his father into giving him the birthright of the father's blessing, which is usually entitled to the eldest son. After the older brother Esau realizes that Jacob had tricked him, he holds a grudge against him and swears to kill his brother. Jacob flees, and undergoes years of different conflicts, trials, and growing. **

**There is one last detailed interaction between Esau and Jacob recorded, years after Jacob stole the birthright and ran away, when they reunite for the first time. The manner and sentiment in this interaction despite the grudge and trickery that drove the brothers apart in the first place is what I'm drawing upon as one of the big parallels between Thor and Loki and Esau and Jacob. You can look it up (Genesis 32-33); it's actually rather touching. **

**Shoutout to marty-mc for letting me draw upon her Thor 2 comic fanart as material for one of Loki's scenes in this chapter! You can find her beautiful art on tumblr (marty-mc dot tumblr dot com (/) post (/) 68183729022 (/) loki-dont-cry-it-was-just-a-bad-dream-you-can)—thanks to her for letting me use her heartbreaking brotherly dialogue and flashback!**

* * *

Jane hates the tube. It is punctual, prompt, and convenient, but she hates it. Hates having to squeeze into a tiny tube with tens of other people at the same time, the impending realization that she is underground and God knows if the tube might collapse on her, that she may be buried alive and crushed and suffocated in complete darkness.

Also, because it smells, but that's hardly the point.

She holds onto one of the few handrails in the train, trying not to accidentally sway into any unfortunate bystander. The fact that she stands at five feet two inches at most makes it even harder to not get stepped or sat on, which is not in her list of preferences after a long day at the lab.

It's already nearly nine in the evening, but the tube is still overflowing. Jane is spending more time in her labs and studies than before. She crams algorithms and theories into her head until there is no room for anything else to freeze her breath and make her heart jump.

Are you very busy, Thor asks, which Jane knows is Thor's way of asking, _Why don't we see each other as often anymore?_ and she would swallow an extra spoonful of sour guilt before spinning some pathetic excuse of, I'm sorry, I'm really busy, we're working on something and I almost got it, I just need an extra hour or more to research, I'm sorry I'm really tired, how about we get coffee next afternoon—?

And he would nod with those understanding eyes, if not a mite crestfallen, and she would feel like utter _crap_ because he is sad but he takes it anyway as if he ought to. Just being _looked at_ by those sad eyes makes Jane want to drop everything and let loose her tongue, blabber all the _I'm sorry's_ and _The truth is_ and the _Thor, it's about Loki—_

But every time she tells herself, this is it, no more listening to Loki, no more believing in an empty threat, she opens her mouth and her heart threatens to jump out because she has been tossing and turning for a week in bed trying to understand what could be so wrong about telling Thor.

It's his little brother.

_He said not to tell_.

Since when did Loki care about Thor?

_He died for Thor, how is that not caring?_

He didn't die for him if he isn't dead.

_But he's still stabbed, he didn't _not_ get hurt either—_

That's beside the point, _what about Thor—?_

Jane needs air. The air here is so thick with everyone shoved into a train with their thick coats and it makes it feel like she is swallowing cotton.

When the train pulls to the next stop, she forces herself out and takes a gasp of the stale but cooler air. She is a good two stops away from where she usually gets off, but she can't stand another minute in there. She stands at the ledge to catch her breath as people stream past her.

Maybe she should just call a cab, except cabs are expensive and she could be using that money for something more important, like margarine, or aspirin, or taser batteries. She doesn't mind a cold walk, just as long as her mind is not so clear that she can keep thinking the what ifs and the why nots.

She turns back toward the train as the doors are closing. The doors slide shut and slowly moves forward.

She thinks she seems something familiar on the other side of the station, through the windows of the train.

The train accelerates—everything is a flashing blur of color, and yet something black and white stands out in the midst of it all, as if it is the center of the universe and everything moves around it, immovable, untouchable.

She stays rooted to the spot, waiting. Somehow, she already knows.

The train rushes out of the station, swallowed whole by the tunnel.

On the other side of the tracks stands Loki.

He wears a long, dark coat that looks like it overwhelms him, with a gray scarf draped lazily over his long neck. To anyone else, he must look like a young businessman waiting for the train home after a long day.

To Jane, she feels the blood drain from her face at the sight of him.

His eyes lock into hers. She knows that he has come here for her. How he found her, where he has been this whole time, Jane has no idea. They stand on opposite side of the tracks, stock still, watching each other, waiting for the other to make a move that could easily crush their world.

He could twitch his finger and send the several hundred feet or so of ground above her head to bury her alive.

She swallows hard. He is so calm that she cannot help but be indignant, because he has plagued her for a week.

He raises his eyes upward, toward the ceiling, before locking his sight into hers. His lips curl into a wry smile.

She understands, and dips her head just a millimeter.

He turns away swiftly, his coat sweeping behind him. She closes her eyes, trying to breathe in deeply. The air is metallic and putrid, but she does not want to go outside.

Answers, she thinks. She might find _answers._

Jane pulls her jacket closer to her body as she trudges up the steps, her rain boots nearly slipping on the dark watery residue that others leave in their wake.

When she emerges from underground, the cold air digs deep into her skin. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to force herself to bear the cold as she wraps her woolen scarf over her mouth. She should have known that getting off two stops early is a very bad idea.

Loki is standing underneath a lamppost, illuminated in the night by the white glow. For someone who is trying to hide the fact that he is alive, Loki still cannot resist the spotlight.

When she braces herself and comes up to him, he barely acknowledges her presence. He watches the starless sky, too hazed by the city lights, his breath forming clouds over his lips from the cold.

"Are you going to start haunting me too?" she says.

Loki chuckles. "And with whom have I already started?"

Jane clenches her teeth. Loki drags his thumb across his cracking lips.

"What do you want from me?" says Jane.

"I was just seeing how you were doing," says Loki.

"Don't lie to me," says Jane. "You sought me out. And I may not know you well, but I doubt you're one who's fond of dropping by for a simple chat."

Loki gives her a sidelong glance.

"Can a future brother-in-law not inquire sweetly?" says Loki.

Jane's face burns.

"You're the last person that should," says Jane.

"Now, Jane Foster," says Loki. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Nothing wrong," she says plainly. "You helped me get the Aether out. You protected me when Thor tried to destroy it. Hell, you saved me from that—that vortex thing, even if in all honesty that was your doing. I honestly can't hold anything against you for myself."

Loki raises his eyebrows and watches the sky again.

"But," Jane says, raising her voice. "But, you're breaking Thor's heart, and I can't take that lying down."

Loki turns sharply to her.

"Did you tell him?" Loki says.

"No," says Jane. "I should have."

Loki closes his eyes. He looks as if he is the white light solidified, carved, shining in the dark, except instead of enticing enchantment he looks daunting.

"I am such a fool," says Loki.

"What?" says Jane.

Loki's lips curl upward in spite of himself.

"I am such a fool that I would idiotically reveal myself to you," says Loki.

"Not that you had a choice," says Jane. "Seeing that you passed out and all."

Loki glares at her. Jane stands her ground, even though she feels herself shaking that has nothing to do with the cold.

"I will say it again to you, then," says Loki. "You must not tell Thor."

"Tell me why," Jane says. "Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"I told you already," says Loki. "Because you care for him—"

"Which is why I _should_," says Jane. "Because he's still grieving for you and his heart wouldn't be so broken if he knew that you were all right—"

"But dear Jane," says Loki, "I thought you didn't like telling lies."

"How is it a lie?" Jane says.

Loki looks away. Jane suddenly remembers pulling open Loki's shirt and seeing the gruesome, still wound on his chest. She opens her mouth, then closes it, clenching her fists in her coat pockets.

"Tell me another good reason," says Jane.

"Because if you do not swear it, I will cast myself invisible and follow you wherever you go just to make sure you do not," says Loki.

Jane freezes. She nearly gags.

"My, my," Loki says. "I wonder what dark secrets little Lady Foster has that she doesn't want me to know."

"You wouldn't dare," says Jane.

"Is that a challenge?" Loki says with a sly smile.

"That's a promise," says Jane.

Loki rolls his eyes.

"How do I know you're not manipulating me?" says Jane. "How do I know you're not emotionally manipulating me by holding Thor over my head? So that I will do your bidding?"

"You don't," says Loki.

"Then—"

"Tell me about how you're doing, Jane Foster," Loki says in such a blithe way as if she is not about to pummel him in the mouth. "Have you done anything interesting? Or are you on your own now?"

"I'm not on my own," Jane says through gritted teeth.

"Oh, then that settles it. Life treats you well?"

"You know what?" says Jane. "If you wanted to ask how Thor's doing, you can just say it out loud."

Loki turns slowly toward her. Jane wonders if she should take a step back now, or face the daggers head-on. The look on his face is stony, impassive, fit to strangle her.

"You should choose your words more wisely," Loki says. His voice bites more painfully than the cold. "You only have a finite amount in a lifetime."

Jane swallows hard. He towers over her, but for a moment she realizes just how much power she just had in those words, that he would threaten her like this. Somehow, she had made him _nervous_.

"For your information," Jane says. She keeps her voice from shaking. "Thor is doing all right."

"Is he?" says Loki. "So much for mourning."

"You sick man," says Jane. "Would you rather he wore black and beat his breast over you for the rest of his long life? Five thousand years down the line, do you want him to never laugh or smile again?"

Loki's jaw tenses.

"Clearly I can't make a simple jest around you," he says.

"That wasn't funny," says Jane.

Loki slips his hand into his pockets and sighs heavily, turning away from her as if she is an annoying child. She grabs his shoulders and pulls him to face her.

"Vicious, are we?" says Loki.

"You still don't look well," Jane says.

Loki's bottom jaw twitches. It's true—he looks greyer than before, as if ill, and under her hands she feels him shuddering. She could probably knock him down if she just leaned forward, but she doesn't risk trying in case she is extremely wrong.

"I still could crush the bone in your wrist into powder with just my finger," Loki says.

"So there's something valid in what I said, huh?" said Jane. "You really aren't well."

"Was that a mystery before?" says Loki.

"Tell me what's wrong with you," says Jane.

"What for?" says Loki "You'd rather see me dead."

"No, I don't," says Jane, and she means it. She thinks. "I want to understand _something_."

"What's wrong with me," says Loki, "is that I am not dead yet."

Jane clenches her teeth.

"What have you been doing here?" she says. "If you're not here to be with Thor—"

"Is that my life purpose?" says Loki. "To be with Thor?"

"—then you must be doing something," Jane says, plowing through. "You wouldn't be someone to waste his time."

"I needed to make several arrangements," says Loki.

"For what?" says Jane.

"My funeral barge."

"Don't joke about that."

"My apologies. I stand corrected. I'd be left to rot in the place where I died."

Jane felt a rush of cold through her veins. She never wondered what exactly Loki had experienced, waking up cold and alone with a stab wound in his chest, left alone because he was supposed to be dead. She wondered if he had been afraid.

"Thor wanted to bring you home," Jane says. Her voice is low. "When Malekith was defeated, he went back to Svartalfheim to look for you. When he couldn't find you and bring you back to Asgard, it's haunted him since."

(_I should have brought him _home—)

Loki's face is impassive. He adjusts his scarf around his neck. His fingers are long and quivering from the cold, or so Jane thinks.

"You would think that was his first clue that I wasn't dead yet," says Loki. "Unfortunately he isn't terribly sharp."

"What if I called SHIELD right now to arrest you?" says Jane.

Loki shrugs. "Then they will come to your rescue only to find that I will not cooperate. Do you think I fear them?"

"So you don't mind if SHIELD knows that you're alive, but you will never let Thor know?" says Jane.

"Oh, does SHIELD know I am dead?" says Loki. He shrugs. "It would make things simpler. The Mind Gem is under their security, is it not?"

"The what?" says Jane.

Loki breathes into his hand. She remembers Thor mentioning that Loki is a Jotun—a Frost Giant. Do they get cold easily if at all?

"Whose side are you even on?" Jane says.

"I have no side," says Loki.

She lets out a bark of laughter, because by God is that an accurate statement, as he flits from place to place like a pixie, causing trouble for anyone who dares breathe the same air he does. How even his own brother cannot be immune to it.

"Let me walk you home," says Loki.

"Thor doesn't live with me if that's what you're expecting," says Jane.

"Do you think I care only about Thor ever?" says Loki.

"I wouldn't believe anything else you'd say," says Jane.

Loki smiles wryly before offering his arm. Jane breathes out heavily, a puff of steam about her face.

"I wouldn't want my brother's lover to go home unchaperoned," says Loki.

"Don't," says Jane.

She turns away, walking down the road toward the long trek to her home. Loki follows her; she hears the crunching of his boots in the snow behind her.

Jane keeps walking in silence for twenty minutes, trying to keep the collar of coat over her nose and lips to keep from breathing in the cold air. She can feel Loki behind her and her fingers edge toward her mobile to call Thor, or her taser, whichever comes first.

"Why can't Heimdall see you?" Jane says.

There is no answer. She turns around to see no one behind her. Not even telltale tracks behind her.

"Loki?" she says.

She presses her lips together, waiting for an answer. When she sees no one, she figures that Loki has finally distracted himself with something else, if not disappeared like a figment of imagination that she wishes he is. She turns back to her path, walking briskly toward her flat.

"You know—"

Loki's voice suddenly tickles her ear. Jane gasps and jumps to the side, fists raised to sock Loki, only to find nothing. She presses her back against the wall, biting her lip.

"You can't prove to Thor that I'm alive if you don't have a body to show him," Loki's voice says.

She swears she hears it, and she swears it is outside of her mind, but she cannot see him. She grits her teeth, anger surging as she lets out a huff. Her breath creates clouds of frustration.

"Are you just going to follow me home?" says Jane.

She hears Loki laugh. She holds her breath just in time, but she sees chilled breath hover in the air to her right. Without hesitating she kicks toward her right, and feels a rush of satisfaction when she feels impact and hears a grunt before stalking off.

* * *

(_Loki, it's all right—_)

Loki foregoes the hotels now. Their gild and lace only makes him itch, and every time he turns a corner in the lavish rooms he expects to run into Frigga, or Thor, or Odin, except that is impossible and he is alone. He can't turn around another corner and not know whether to feel relief or emptiness.

(_Shh, it's okay—_)

Sometimes, the rooms are so large that they echo. Sometimes, he thinks he hears other voices.

He hears Thor.

He curls up in a ball in the corner of Jane's couch—the lock is embarrassingly easy to pick, and even if he cannot he can melt through the walls with his magic. She has been spending less time in her flat—probably more time at Thor's, doing whatever the hell it is that lovers do. Loki tries to not think about it.

He buries his face in the corner of the couch. He cannot sleep tonight. It hurts to breathe and he cannot relax. Even if he could, he doesn't want to try anymore. He never stops having nightmares that he cannot remember, leaving him waking up breathless and heart ramming and cold sweat along his hairline and that impenetrable silence around him.

(_Don't cry, it's all right, I'm here—_)

Loki is cold. He tries to suppress a shiver and fails. He has never felt this unbearably _cold_ before. He does not take one of Jane's blankets; he hardly cares if she notices anything amiss in her flat. He finds that he cares little for anything.

He sees Thor's face beneath his eyelids and shudders.

His heart still hammers against his chest from the nightmare. He doesn't know exactly what he saw, or what frightens him, but only that he is breathing heavily and it makes his chest tear, and he doesn't know what to do.

(_Loki, look at me—_)

He lets out a small gasp. His wound burns, reminding him of his ripped heart. It struggles to beat on, like how a horse with a broken leg tries to continue galloping until it will drop dead and rotten in a ditch.

He sees a young Thor before him, and hears childish words. He hates himself for staying still, to try to remember, to _remember_.

He remembers nightmares that are silly—of Frost Giants looking for him to kill as he hides and he cannot close his eyes to try to forget them, or of his family all dying in front of him, or the ground swallowing him whole. How he would shake awake in the nursery with a small cry, and as much as he would want to patter down the halls to Frigga's chambers and bury himself in her arms, he would be too afraid to poke his head out from underneath his covers.

(_Loki, are you okay?_)

But somehow Thor—idiotic Thor, foolish Thor, Damn Thor—would know when Loki was afraid. And when Loki would shiver under his silk sheets, trying not to breathe in the warm air choking him in his throat, Thor would quietly knock on Loki's door before coming inside to his bedside.

_Loki?_ Thor says.

Loki would squeeze his eyes shut, afraid that it was a gremlin tricking him with his older brother's voice. It wasn't until Thor would put a hand where Loki's shoulder was under the sheets that Loki would poke his face out of the blankets, eyes watering. Thor would be standing beside Loki's bed, his own blanket wrapped around his shoulders to keep warm. He would place a candle on the nightstand—even in the dim light Loki could recognize his light.

_Thor, _Loki would say. _Thor, I'm so scared. _

_What are you afraid of?_

_I don't know_. Loki would let the tears fall. He would grip the edges of his blanket and have it raised to his nose so he could hide his quivering lips. _I had a bad dream and now I'm scared._

_What did you dream of, _Thor said.

_I don't remember, _Loki would say, and his voice shook. _Thor, please stay with me._

Thor would grip Loki's shoulder tight before sitting down on Loki's bedside. Loki would clutch Thor's wrist, and his face would crumple because he couldn't get that souring, cold chill out of his chest.

_Oh, Loki, _Thor said, and he would bend down and kiss Loki on the forehead. _Don't cry. _

And those would be the magic words that would make Loki cry harder. Thor would dab Loki's cheeks with the corner of his own blanket.

_It's all right, _he said. _I'm here, Loki. _

_Please,_ Loki said. _Stay with me._

_I will, _Thor said.

He lay by Loki's side, letting Loki cling to his side. But Loki couldn't stop shaking, and as he buried his face into Thor's face, he couldn't stop the tears.

_What's wrong?_

_What if I'm scared tomorrow, _Loki says. _And I can't see you? What if you can't protect me?_

Thor was quiet for a moment before he sat up. Loki had let out a small whimper, feeling for Thor's hand again. Thor tucked in Loki's sheets until they were warm and protective over him. He then draped his own blanket over Loki. It was warm on him.

_Then you'll have this, _says Thor. _You'll have my blanket. It'll keep you safe when you're scared and I'm not there to protect you. _

Loki gingerly wrapped his fingers around the edges of the blanket. It was warm and it smelled like Thor.

_Nothing will hurt you, little brother, _Thor said. _I'll always protect you. I promise. Nothing will ever happen to you._

—Loki doesn't understand why his heart hurts, as if it is Thor who is dead. As if they are brothers at all.

As if Loki cares.

And his heart _hurts_, when he knows that such a time is long dead.

He feels so cold.

Would Thor still let Loki touch him if he knew Loki is alive?

(_Shh, it's okay—_

_It's all right_)

Crumpled papers surround him.

(I didn't do it for him.)

Loki only knows this—

Death makes their love—whatever it is between the two of them—perfect.

There is a draft. Loki shivers.

Death keeps it from hurting.

* * *

The next time Jane sees Loki, he is cooking stew in her kitchen.

She returns from Thor's flat—she gave a panicked excuse to Thor that her flat is under extreme renovations and that he couldn't come around because it looks like a pigsty. She doesn't like how Loki might know where she lives, so she spends most of her time at either Erik's or Thor's. She still does not tell Thor that Loki is alive, because how is she supposed to prove he is alive if he can disappear and make her look like a liar?

Until, of course, she unlocks the door to her flat only to find Loki in her cramped kitchen, stirring a large pot of beef and vegetable stew.

Her backpack of lab studies and books drops to the ground. She stands with her jaw hanging as Loki turns off the stove and steals a glance at her from over his shoulder.

"I didn't expect you to be back so early," says Loki.

Jane feels like the tables have turned. Loki sighs heavily before he returns to his pot, spooning some stew into one of her wooden bowls.

"How the hell did you get in?" says Jane.

"What a silly question," says Loki.

Jane's mouth opens and closes like a nonplussed goldfish.

"What are you making?" she says.

"That's a better question," says Loki. "I'm making lapskaus." He raises the bowl to his lips and takes a sip. "I suppose you can have some if you are starving."

"Are those my carrots?" she says.

"No," Loki says.

She stares at him. Loki doesn't acknowledge her glare, continuing to chew on a bite of beef.

"Your inns aren't necessarily equipped with kitchens," says Loki.

"Are you bumming off in my place now?" says Jane. "And you expect me to keep your cover?"

"I don't expect you to keep my cover," says Loki. "I expect you to do what's right."

"Oh my God, _don't_ think you have the freedom to tell me what's right," Jane says. She kicks the door closed behind her. "What have you been up to? Messing with SHIELD? Causing trouble?"

"Trust me," Loki says. "If I have done something nefarious, you would most certainly hear about it already."

"And if you did something good?" says Jane.

Loki takes another thoughtful sip of his stew. He looks as if he has not eaten for months.

"Then you would never know about it," says Loki.

He stares out the small square of a window in her kitchen. Jane swears that he has already forgotten her presence in her own home. She raises a hand to take his shoulder again, but she hesitates. He looks as if he will crumble into dust if she touches him.

"How is Thor?" says Loki blithely.

Jane can see how he tenses after asking, staying stone still as if any movement from him will obstruct him from hearing anything she may say about Thor. She takes in a deep breath.

"You should find out yourself," Jane says.

Loki chuckles.

"You want me to make my grand reveal to Thor personally?" he says. "I would think he would prefer bad news to come from a more lovable source such as you."

"You don't even want me to tell him the so-called bad news," says Jane.

"True," says Loki.

Silence. Jane pulled the pot off the stove and poured the contents into a large Tupperware container. If he is going to break into her kitchen and make soup with her groceries then she might as well lay claim to the leftovers.

"Is he happy yet?" says Loki.

Jane slams the emptied pot into the sink and spins around toward him.

"Yes," she says, nearly spitting. She wonders if she could feel the sardonic spittle. "He has completely moved on and forgotten all about you and even if you told him you were still alive, he wouldn't care because he's perfectly happy. Is that what you want to hear?"

Loki keeps his eyes on the window. If he heard what Jane had said, he does not let it touch him. He sets the bowl down on the kitchen counter and moves to the living room. Jane wonders with an uncomfortable twinge in her stomach if she had said the wrong thing and cautiously follows him. Loki sinks into the couch, letting his head fall back.

"That is what I expect to hear," says Loki. "We might as well not shatter that, shall we? I'd hate to be the ruination of his happiness."

"I wasn't serious," Jane says quietly.

"You will be, in due time," says Loki. "He'd be happier after a week or two, and he can't do that if I'm actually alive."

"He loves you," Jane says. Loki sits on the very couch in which Thor has nightmares of him. "I know that there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't think of you and regret."

"Does he?" says Loki.

He lifts his head to face her. His eyes look worn.

"Thor loves me better dead," he says. He smiles. "And I do not blame him."

* * *

"You'd think that at least one of us would have another friend outside of the five of us to hang out with," Darcy says.

Jane rolls her eyes. Darcy is sprawled on the couch, hogging it to the point that her part intern part boyfriend is nearly shoved onto the armrest, even though this is, in fact, his flat. Erik and Thor are having a beer at the coffee table, crowded around the television set.

"Don't you appreciate our bonding time with us, Darcy?" Jane says.

Darcy pops a cheese cracker into her mouth.

"I love spending my time with people who think watching the news and eating finger food is a great way to spend a Saturday night," says Darcy. "It makes me feel so alive."

Jane sits next to Thor on the ground. Thor is on his third bottle of beer. It doesn't faze him in the slightest. Erik is already muddled and tipsy—after his run-in with Loki, drunkenness is never a difficult state to reach. She puts a hand on his back; he leans into her touch.

"Look alive, then," says Jane. "It's movie night."

"At least we have you and Thunder Thighs over here to join the fun," says Darcy. "What have you guys been busy with all the time? Befriending more legendary deities?"

"I told you, I've been busy," Jane says.

"Yeah, I'm sure you both were," says Darcy.

Jane crams a handful of pretzels into her mouth. Thor turns toward her, sitting Indian style on the rug.

"It's good to see everyone together again," Thor says. "I apologize for not calling on you all for all this time."

"What have you been doing all the time?" says Erik. He still looks disheveled after all this time, but he is at least holding down his beer with dignity. "Dabbling with SHIELD still?"

Thor bites his lip. "There is reason to worry about Ultron. The United States have deemed that they do not need SHIELD or the Avengers, but Ultron does not seem trustworthy."

"Nothing's trustworthy," Erik says. "SHIELD isn't even trustworthy. How do they know Ultron isn't actually good for the States or whatever the hell they're for?"

"Ugh, is this talk about real things?" says Darcy. "Man, the party really doesn't start until you guys walk in."

"What are you doing, getting more involved with SHIELD, Thor?" says Erik.

"Let's play Jenga," says Darcy. "Anyone wanna play Jenga?"

"He's helping out," Jane says firmly. "SHIELD isn't perfect. But Thor's not doing anything wrong."

"I would like to play your game, Darcy," Thor says quietly, edging closer to Darcy's couch.

"See? This guy at least knows how to have a life," says Darcy. She slaps a hand on Thor's shoulder. "Come on, I'll teach you Jenga. Do you know Jenga?"

Thor shakes his head. "I would like to learn, though."

"Then you've come to the right place," says Darcy. "Seriously, though. We should hang out more often. You're fun and I like you. Like a cuddle bear," she adds when Ian frowns on the side. "Except the people at Build-A-Bear messed up and filled you with rocks instead of stuffing. Look at that."

"Thor, you never told us why you were staying more on Earth than in Asgard," Erik says.

Thor presses his lips together. Jane keeps her hand on his back, as if to steady him.

"It is my choice," Thor says. "I want to help protect Midgard, and keep the friendships I have here."

"Silencio, old man," says Darcy to Erik. "I'm trying to annoy Thor single-handedly here."

"You are not annoying," says Thor.

"Oh God, just marry him, Jane," says Darcy. "I want him as my brother-in-law."

"Darcy, we aren't even close to being related," Jane says.

"I know where your mom lives, we're practically family," says Darcy. "He's already a much better older brother than mine, anyway. At least he thinks I'm cool and doesn't eat my Pop Tarts without asking first, right, Thor?"

Thor doesn't seem to be paying attention. Jane feels him stiffen beneath her hand. While Darcy is shoving aside the bowl of finger food and dumping the tube of Jenga blocks onto the coffee table. Thor absentmindedly plays with the glass bottle, eyes fixed elsewhere.

Erik leans forward over the table, nearly knocking down Darcy.

"Aren't you supposed to be ruling the kingdom by now?" says Erik.

"I refused the throne," Thor says.

Erik gapes at him. Darcy nearly drops the Jenga can. Thor avoids eye contact, instead focusing on the bottle in his hand.

"What did you do that for?" Erik says. "You're the crown prince, aren't you?"

"It's his decision, Erik," says Jane.

"Who's supposed to be king, then?" says Erik.

"My father is still alive," says Thor. "And he has a very trustworthy regent when he falls into the Odinsleep."

"And afterward?" says Erik. "Is Asgard just going to—I don't know—move into a democracy?"

"Erik, I don't think that concerns us," Jane says cautiously.

"I didn't think it was even possible to give up a throne in any kind of monarchy," says Erik. "Except maybe with King George VI and his older brother running off with an American, but even if Loki was alive I would hope to God the throne wouldn't go to him, but thankfully he isn't so that isn't part of the issue—"

"Erik," Jane says.

"I know, I'm just stating the truth," Erik says, swallowing the rest of the contents of his beer bottle. "Look, dead or not, there's no denying that Loki would never be good for Asgard or any place or anyone—"

The glass bottle shatters in Thor's hand. Jane jumps and even Darcy lets out a yelp. Thor is sitting absolutely still, the shattered remains of his bottle in his hands. His eyes are fixed on the coffee table—hardened, but not cold like stone. Like ice, threatening to shatter or melt.

Everyone is completely silent. All that can be heard is the background noise of the television playing some BBC rerun. Jane's heart does not ram against her chest in fear. Instead, it aches.

Thor takes in a breath before shaking his head. He offers a small, strained smile.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I—my grip. It was too tight. I must have frightened you all."

He rises to his feet, cradling the heavy glass shards in his hand. All eyes follow him. He towers over them, but he looks so small. When he moves toward the door, his feet barely make a sound.

"Where are you going?" says Darcy.

"I should—I wouldn't want to throw these away in your rubbish bin," Thor says. He doesn't look at any of them. He gestures to the shards in his hand. Jane sees his hand shaking. "I'll take them to the bins outside. On the sidewalk. I don't want them to cut anyone."

He disappears through the door without another word. The four left behind are silent. The television sings on with their elegant stories of English dynasties and royalty. No one moves an inch.

They hear the door to the emergency stairway close as Thor passes through them. Jane can feel his heart hurt. She knows how soft it is, and wonders if it is a blessing or a curse.

Jane stands silently and follows him out of the flat and down the stairs. Building speed until she is practically flying out the stairs and out the door into the cold, where only streetlights keep the outside warm. She steps outside, drawing herself close and wishing she at least threw a jacket on before she ran outside.

Thor stands at the side of the building where the metal rubbish cans are. His hands are shaking and his head is bowed. He would not look at her.

"Thor," Jane whispers.

Before the name can slip from Jane's lips, Thor spins and drives his fist deep into the wall. Bits of red rock spray from the blow and he lets out a terrible, anguished scream so painful that it makes him shake and cower. Jane hears how it tears his throat. How it drags his very heart out from his mouth.

When he finishes, when he is drained and emptied, he slumps against the wall. His fist uncurls and the jagged glass pieces fall out. Some are dug into Thor's skin.

Jane silently comes to Thor and holds his hand carefully. Her own hands are shaking as she pulls out the glass pieces from his fingers and palm. Thor keeps his head bowed. Jane wishes she could take his chin and slowly lift his face, as if that can be enough. As if that is all it takes.

"I'm sorry," Thor says. His voice cracks. "I'll fix the wall."

"Oh, Thor," Jane says. Her eyes burn.

"Loki deserved a better brother," Thor says. He choked and his shoulders shake. "I loved him, Jane. But I didn't love him enough. I didn't love him enough."

He sinks lower down the wall until he's sitting on the ground, shaking. Jane wraps her arms around his shoulders as he breathes deeply, trying to fill that empty hole in him with cold air. She kisses him on the temple, on the cheek, on the head, trying to love him so that he knows that even if he is in pain he doesn't have to be _alone_.

Except he is, because Jane knows that Loki is alive.

She sucks in a breath. There is a hot rush inside of her, because she understands now—understands that she will tell Thor about Loki, regardless of what Loki had said, regardless of what Loki thinks he knows more than she does. She is going to go back to her flat and drag Loki to Thor and say _Look!_ Say, _Thor, it's okay, _look_, he's alive, he's alive and you don't have to hurt, it's okay, you've done nothing wrong it's _okay.

"Let's take you home, Thor," Jane says. Her voice is feverish. She's shaking with waiting. "I'll be right with you, Thor. I'm going to bring you home, Thor—and I'm going to tell you something. I'm going to tell you something and it'll be okay."

Thor doesn't ask questions. He is too numb, but Jane will change that. He silently lets her take him back to his flat and she makes sure he is all right. When he is silent in his kitchen with a brew of hot tea, when his eyes are red but dry, she kisses him on the cheek, with a promise that she'll be back soon, very soon.

By the time she steps out of the building of his flat, it is past midnight. She takes five paces on the sidewalk, looks over her shoulder to Thor's window, before she breaks into a sprint.


	7. Chapter 7

**I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas! Happy New Year!**

* * *

Jane's heart pumps as fast as her legs.

She doesn't understand this burning in her chest. She knows anger. She knows fear. She knows excitement, and impatience. But this is entirely different. This is pure drive.

She fishes wildly for her pockets for her door keys. She doesn't really know if Loki will be there. For all she should know, he could be camping in some other poor bloke's flat, or bumming off a timeshare in Tahiti. But she knows one thing—he wouldn't be far from here.

He shouldn't be far from Thor.

She rounds the corner of the street and nearly falls on her side as she rushes to her flat, practically bowling over the buzzing door. Up the five flights of stairs until she reaches her door and jams her key into the lock. She has it all settled, all planned—she will grab a hold of Loki, whatever the hell he is doing, and drag him out. Drag him down the street to where Thor is, force him into Thor's arms—he can threaten her all he wants but she will not fail in doing this.

She pushes open the door when it unlocks. She is nearly too breathless with anticipation.

"Loki," she says loudly. "_Loki_."

She closes the door behind her and looks up. Her blood runs cold.

"Oh my God," she says.

Loki is crumpled on the carpet, blood dripping from his lips. His fingers are stained red and he is watching his hand with unfocused eyes as if it is the most fascinating thing he has ever laid eyes on. He is ghastly pale and she swears she has no idea how she knows he is not actually dead.

She falls to her knees besides Loki, trying to lift his head from the ground. He coughs; specks of blood stain her shirt.

"Oh my God, oh my God," she whispers.

She props him up against the couch. His head lolls, limply lying against the cushions as Jane tries to wipe the blood from his lips and chin with her wrist. When she ran her fingers roughly over his stained lips, he laughs.

"What happened?" Jane says. Her voice is high in hysterics. "What happened to you?"

"Looks like—" Loki coughs. His blood falls on her face and she winces. "Looks like Kurse's blade cut my lungs after all."

"What?" Jane says. She shakes her head. "Forget it—what can I do? What's wrong? Where does it hurt?"

"What does it matter?" says Loki. His lips barely move as he speaks. "It will all end up the same anyway."

Jane looks up sharply to him. He swallows and grimaces, blood coating his throat.

"What do you mean?" says Jane.

Loki's smile slips away. He closes his eyes, concentrating on breathing, a flinch of pain flitting over his features every so often.

"Get me some water, will you?" Loki says.

"Is that going to help at all?" says Jane.

"My wound? No," says Loki. "But my livelihood? You wouldn't deny a dead man one last drop of comfort, would you?"

Jane gives Loki a long stare before finally standing up. She pours a glass of cold water and returns to the living room to give it to Loki. He drinks it greedily; the moment the water touches his lips it tinges a faint red. Jane hides a grimace.

When he finishes the glass, she speaks up.

"Loki," she says. "Does that mean you're going to die?"

Loki lowers the glass. He stares ahead of him, toward the blank television screen. She crouches next to him, not unlike how she had sat next to his brother when he was shaken awake by a nightmare. No sound interrupts them by the soft hum of the heater.

"Astute, Jane Foster," Loki says.

Jane looks down at the cup, where a line of red marks where his lips were like a woman's lipstick kiss, and up to his pale face where his lips are still marked.

"How?" she says.

Loki smacks his lips as if to savor the metal taste of his blood. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to push himself off the ground, only to crumple back, groaning. Jane's hands fly to steady him, but he swats them away.

"Don't bother," he says. "I can't hurt myself any more than I already am."

"What do you mean?" says Jane.

"I've already been killed, Jane Foster," says Loki. "Now I'm just a little delayed in the dying part."

He falls silent. His chest rises and falls with each breath. Jane wants to reach out and feel for a pulse again, but she is too stiff to move.

"I don't understand," Jane says.

"I don't expect you to," says Loki.

"Then _help_ me understand," Jane says, "because you're bleeding all over my floor and making me lie to your brother about you being alive when in fact you aren't dead and the fact that I can't tell him is killing the _both _of us."

"A week from now—a month from now—perhaps even a year from now, none of that will matter," Loki says. His voice is biting. "You can run off and tell Thor I'm alive now, but whatever joy or disappointment or reaction he gets from that will only be a waste. It will be short-lived, and it wouldn't matter."

"Why do you say that?" says Jane.

"Because I am not saved from death," says Loki. "Only delayed."

She says nothing. Her mind is whirring. Loki shakes his head, grimacing.

"Dark Elf weaponry," Loki says, "is notorious for inducing a slow and excruciating death to whoever it befalls on, no matter the degree of the fatal blow. It guarantees inevitable suffering that can be alleviated by nothing." He smiles wryly. "And more likely than not, that sword is the very one who killed our queen."

Jane's stomach sinks. It is essentially her fault that Frigga died—apparently, it was an agonizing one as well. Loki's eyes shine, but he betrays no other emotion.

"So what about you?" says Jane.

"I was a fool," Loki says.

He runs his long finger over the rim of the glass. They are still ruddy with his own blood. Jane holds her breath, waiting.

"My magic is what protects me," says Loki. "I have it guard me constantly. Shield me. The moment I was stabbed, it tried to heal me immediately. But Dark Elves' magic is ancient and considered too extinct to study—I've never learnt to battle it. My attempts to healing did nothing but prolong the dying."

"So," Jane says. Her voice is small and flat. "So you never did survive. You're only just still dying. But you have time. You can be healed. This just bought you time."

"Of course I do not," says Loki.

"But you're not a reanimated corpse—you're not undead!" says Jane. She presses a hand against his chest. He jerks back. She can feel his heartbeat. "You're still alive, you have _time._ You can go get healing somewhere—from Asgard, even from Earth, _anything_. What have you been doing with yourself this whole time?"

"As proven before," Loki says, "my magic trying to help me doesn't exactly do that."

He takes a sheet of paper from her coffee table and crumples it before wiping his lips. She grimaces, hoping that it isn't anything of her importance.

"Then get open heart surgery," says Jane. "Go get healing from Asgard—they know how to fix it, don't they? With magic? Is it a case of prolonged degeneration? Maybe I can—"

Loki laughs, cutting her short.

"Nothing can save me," says Loki. "Just as nothing else can claim my life. Try it. Take a knife and drive it into my throat. Even if you are strong enough to cut me, you will not end me. I've already been ended. I only last on borrowed time."

Jane's nails dig into her palm. It explains everything—the way he looks like he is wasting away, the color seeping from his skin, the fragility that she cannot touch. But then she thinks of Thor and she is burning, frantic. Time—_time_—such a thing can't be wasted so why are they _wasting _it? She grabs Loki's wrist and tries to rise and pull him up, but he refuses to budge.

"What are you doing?" says Loki.

"I'm taking you to Thor," says Jane.

Loki twists his wrist so that he has the upper hand, dragging her down to the ground. She crashes onto the floor, yelping as he twists her arm.

"You try that again," Loki says, "and I will break your arm."

"He can help you!" Jane says.

"I've already made myself clear," Loki says. "Nothing can help me. Why can't that get into your head?"

"Then why are you avoiding him?" Jane says. "You're dying, but you'll go to me, and you don't care if SHIELD knows. So why are you hiding from Thor?"

"Would you want Thor to watch you die thrice?" Loki says. His face is so murderous that Jane loses her breath. "Would you want Thor to grieve and move on, only to be thrown back at him to be dealt with and fought with again?"

Jane's mouth is dry. She tries to pull away, but Loki's grip is iron.

"Let me go," she says.

"He will find out I'm still alive," says Loki, "and then what? I will die, a week down the line, a month, Norns know when, and he will lose me again. And he will go through what you see now, what he feels now, again. Tell me, Jane, why are you so damn _eager_ to have him go through that again?"

Jane is shaking. She keeps trying to pull away, but any more and she is going to dislocate her arm. She feels bruises form underneath Loki's grip.

"You're brothers," Jane says. Her voice shakes, but she does not let it falter. "You're brothers, and that wouldn't matter to him—"

"Would you like to break his heart, Jane Foster?" says Loki. "If this news will elate him as much as you say it would, would you like for that all to be ripped away from him and for him to fall again into despair?"

Jane shakes. She doesn't know whether to say no or yes, only that she knows both answers are wrong. She tries to pry his hand off, but he only grips tighter.

"So what are you doing, huh?" Jane says. "Is this you trying to—to _protect_ him?"

"I've made him watch me die twice already," Loki says. "I won't let him see me die a third and final time. Besides," he adds, his voice bitter, "I'm sure the novelty wears off by the third time."

"So are you afraid that he will grieve too much for you?" says Jane. "Or not at all?"

Loki freezes. Jane takes this moment to wrench her arm out of his grip. She breathes heavily, nursing her extremely bruised arm, eyeing Loki as if he is a wolf about to attack.

"Both," Loki says, and he laughs. "Both. What have I to hide? I will die and none of this will matter."

"Why would you think that?" Jane says. "Why would you ever think he wouldn't mourn for you? Is two times not enough proof to you?"

"I told you, Jane," Loki says. His chest heaves as he tries to breathe. His eyes are shining. "I told you. Thor loves me better dead, and so do I." He lets out a splintering laugh. "Did you not see our goodbye, Jane? He held me for the first time in centuries. I wanted nothing but for him to be safe for the first time in a long time. In death, we became brothers—" He let out another choked laugh. "—and I actually wanted that. In death, we loved each other, and then we said our goodbyes. If I came back again, all that would be gone. That love will be shattered, because I will be alive and I can only corrupt what love I try to give. Forgive me—" Loki says, smiling in spite of himself as his voice quivers. "Forgive me for wanting the table scraps of peace, Jane Foster. I'm too tired to keep fighting for one."

Jane is shaking. She doesn't know why her heart hurts so much. Perhaps because, deep down, as much as she hates what Loki says, she can understand it. She knows what he means. It makes _sense_.

"You don't know that," Jane says. "You don't know that he will hate you, you don't know that you'll ruin anything. You don't."

"I've seen far more proof of such than you can ever know," says Loki. His smile is poisoned. "And in the end, I will be too dead for it to matter. But you will leave Thor to pick up whatever broken pieces of his damned life, damned family, on his own. He's lost his mother, his sorry excuse for a brother—it is no mystery that he will lose his father soon. How much loss shall you force him to endure, Jane? Especially since you will be just another one in due time yourself."

Jane shudders. She holds onto the edge of the coffee table as if the strain in the muscles of her fingers could keep her afloat as she is drowning, drowning in his words, his confessions.

"Tell me, Loki," says Jane. "If Frigga was actually still alive, but only just—if she had only a month to live, but a month that you could talk with her, see her, apologize to her, _love _her, before she died, would you rather give that up to save yourself heartache? Would you forego seeing her again just to protect yourself from the pain you already know?"

"How dare you bring her up?" Loki says. His voice is like a silk dagger.

"_Tell me_, Loki," Jane says. Her knees are shaking, but she speaks on. "Would you rather never see her again rather than just see her one last time and _love_ her?"

"Shut up," Loki says.

"Do you want me to tell you what he said to me today?" she whispers.

Loki kicks at her coffee table. It flips over, one let snapping off. Jane closes her eyes, her heart jumping into her throat. Loki breathes heavily, nails digging into his arms.

"He told me," she says. She swallows and plows on. "He told me he didn't love you enough."

"Me being alive for now will change nothing," says Loki.

"You could have a proper goodbye—"

"Who's to say he will not think I am jesting?" says Loki. "I did not die the first time. He will find out I did not die a second time. What if he waits, thinking I will come back a third? Waiting—thinking this is all a joke, another prank, but I'm gone. I'm in Hel—I'm plummeting through stars and in the bottom of oceans. I'll be nowhere at all."

"Do you think that your life really causes all those inconveniences to Thor?" Jane says. Her eyes blur.

Loki's smile shakes. It makes it grow wider.

"What more has it ever done?" he says.

"Thor is in _agony_ without you," says Jane. "And I try so hard to be there for him, to help him, but I can't because I'm _not you_, and all this time, _you_—" She brandishes her arm wildly at him. "_You _are here and you can make him happy again and you won't."

"Because I _can't_!" he spits. His gaze burns. "Because he can't save me no matter what he wants, because even if he really wants me so badly he won't have anything because I am _dying_, Jane. I'm not going to save him. I will give him false hope, and then I will shatter it. Look at us, Jane—by loving us, Thor has condemned himself to loss."

Jane feels as if she has been kicked in the gut. She could stumble back from the painful impact of his words against her heart. She doesn't realize she is shaking until Loki grips her knee, and finds it to be the only stilled part of her.

"There's got to be a way," Jane says with a fragile voice.

"He moves on," Loki says. His voice is hollow. "He lets go, and he forgets."

Jane bites her lip until she tears skin. She cares for Thor—she cares for him tremendously. But now she no longer knows how.

"What if you're lying to me?" she says. Her words are brittle. "What if nothing you're saying is true?"

Loki lets go of her knee.

"Then you will find out in due time whether or not I'm still alive," he says.

His hands are so skeletal that she is surprised they did not break when they held onto her. They sit here, on her floor, with whatever they have in between themselves that could be reason to hate each other, but they sit here because they have one thing in common—Thor. And that is enough.

She can still hear Thor trying to swallow his sobs as he turned his face away from her, as if that was enough to keep her ignorant of his pain. Still feel his hands as she pulled glass from his skin, how they quaked and were cold. Still feel his pain in her own chest and realize that no matter what, he could not escape that. If Loki is truly to die, time would not soften the blow of death, would not make up for the loneliness that would follow. Because Thor still loves his little brother, and losing him will never be easy. She would send Thor to experience all of that all over again, all that pain and suffering and grief that breaks both of their hearts.

"I won't tell," she whispers. "I won't tell him anything."

She draws her knees to her chest and buries her face in them. She clenches her teeth trying not to scream, trying not to cry, because she is about to betray Thor in hopes that in some way, she can save him.


	8. Chapter 8

Thor returns from a conference call with the Avengers back in the United States to see Jane in his flat. This would hardly be a problem if it isn't nearly midnight and she isn't pacing through the living room as if she is waiting for a bomb to blow.

"Jane," Thor says with surprise.

She looks up, frazzled. Thor shrugs off his coat and tosses it onto the wicker chair in the living room.

"Jane, is everything all right?" he says.

"Yeah," Jane says, clearly not all right. "Yeah, I just—sorry. Can I sleep on your couch again tonight? I just—the flat is really weird because they're still—you know—breaking down the walls to get to the pipes and stuff, and it's really cold and makes dripping noises and—"

"Of course," Thor says. "You can take the bed."

She shakes her head, still unable to stay in one place. Thor purses his lips and puts a hand on her shoulder, partly as comfort and partly to keep her from wearing a track on his floor with her incessant pacing. She jumps at his touch and he draws back immediately.

"Are you frightened of something?" says Thor.

"I'm not," Jane says. "I'm just—thinking."

"What is on your mind?" says Thor.

"Things," Jane says. She shakes her head, backtracking. "I mean—it's been a long day and I just need to process everything on my own."

Thor hesitates. Jane hasn't held his gaze since that night he had stormed out of the gathering with the others. He feels a twinge of shame and regret—maybe she thinks he would crush her shoulder as easily as he crushed the glass.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" says Thor.

"No," says Jane, turning away and looking out toward the window. "Ye—no, no, there isn't. I just need to think a little."

Thor opens his mouth, but then silences himself. He wordlessly leaves the living room to take a quick shower and brush his teeth—maybe if he stalls then she will be more willing to talk. Thor can only wait for anyone to talk—he has already spent several millennia never listening, only for his loved ones to crumble past him beyond repair, lost.

When he returns to the living room, Jane is on the couch, her knees drawn to her chest. Thor just now notices the shadows under her eyes, and how bitten and peeled are the skin of her lips

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he says.

"Why are you so good to me?" Jane says.

Thor blinks. She lets her head fall back, sighing heavily. She is picking at the threadbare cover of the couch cushion.

"Thor," Jane says. "Can I ask you something?"

Thor goes around to sit next to her on the couch.

"Of course," he says.

"If—hypothetically, so none of this is real," she says. "If it turns out I was dying. I had cancer, and I was going to die next week—be honest with me. Would you want to leave?"

"What do you mean by cancer?" says Thor. He doesn't like this question. It makes him feel cold.

"It's a sickness," says Jane. "It's a sickness and depending on where it is or how fast it is, it could kill people. It takes its time but it kills people."

Thor's heart skips a beat. He tries to search her face, wondering if perhaps this isn't as hypothetical as she claims, but she looks elsewhere. He tries to search for the truth in her eyes but he could hardly do it with his own family, much less Jane.

"Why are you asking this of me?" he says.

"I'm sorry," says Jane. "I'm just—listen. I'm not testing you or anything. I'm just that a friend—er, acquaint—no, someone I know is going through something and I don't know what to tell them because I can't…relate? But I want to help them."

"Is this person ill?" he asks.

"Kind of," Jane says. She turns to face him. "Would you want to leave?"

"Of course I'd stay with you," says Thor. "That would be a time you need someone the most."

Jane flashes him a quick smile. Thor can see through it easily, like mountains in mist.

"But it would still hurt, wouldn't it?" she says. He worries his bottom lip. "It would probably hurt more if you—if you even knew that I was dying."

"Everyone is dying, in a way," Thor says. "If you think that way you might as well go around hurting all the time."

"It's not that far from the truth," says Jane.

Thor pauses before shifting in his seat. He wonders if she truly has a friend—acquaintance—someone she knows who is dealing with illness, or perhaps she is worrying about their future. She is still mortal, and he is still AEsir—time will easily end what little they already have.

"Would a dying person rather be all on their own to their last breath?" says Thor. "Death doesn't have to be seen in order to be grieved. Not all the time."

Though, Thor can hardly be the one to talk. Everyone he has lost has died before his very eyes.

"So it wouldn't matter to you?" says Jane. "You'd still love—you'd still be with a person even if they were going to die? Even if—if it was going to break your heart?"

"Jane, we do not love others because we can bear the risk of losing them," says Thor. "When we love someone, we can't bear being apart from them. Is that so wrong?"

"It's wrong when it hurts the people you love—being gone," Jane says. "Doesn't it?"

"What is on your mind?" says Thor.

Jane shakes her head. She tugs at the ends of her hair; it is disheveled and fraying at the ends, as if she had spent this past week in a tornado.

"It's nothing," she says. "No, don't worry about me, I wasn't asking for me. I really wasn't."

"Did I help you?" Thor says, even though he can tell that he probably did not.

Jane gives a tight smile.

"Yeah, you did," she says. Her fingers are now busy with the loose yarn of her sweater. "I just—my acquaintance-person, he—"

"What ails him?" Thor says. He is aware that he doesn't know everyone in Jane's life, but still, he thinks he ought to know if there was another man. Maybe it is that Richard person he remembers calling her some time ago. Thor can't help but brace his shoulders at the thought.

"He's in a—predicament," says Jane. She bites her lip again. "And he thinks he made the right choice but I don't know. I agree, but I don't want to."

"May I ask what you mean?" says Thor.

"No," says Jane. "I'm sorry but—not now. I'm still processing."

She sits silently, limbs tense. Thor rubs her back for a moment; he knows he can't take her burdens, much less a burden she carries for another person, but if he could alleviate it in any way he would.

"Are you sure you're all right, Jane?" Thor says.

Jane wraps Thor into a tight embrace. Thor returns it warmly, despite the confusion in the back of his mind. She is normally someone who likes physical affection, but there is something desperate in her grasp. As if she is not afraid to hurt him if she could squeeze tight enough.

"Shh, it's all right," Thor says. He feels her shaking in his arms. He rubs her back, trying to quell whatever fears or worries she harbors. "What is it, Jane? What do you want?"

"I want—" She isn't crying, from the sound of her voice. But then her shaking must mean she is afraid. "I want you to be happy. But I'm afraid that won't happen."

Thor's grip tightens for a moment. He looks down at her, how she is holding onto him like he is about to fall. He opens his mouth to assure her that he's fine, he's happy, she has nothing to worry about—but he doesn't know how to lie like that. His smiles last milliseconds and he still can't sleep without dreaming. He still will stop dead in his tracks and feel everything crumble inside, and the sudden, powerful urge to just cry out for his mother or brother would make him choke up. Jane can see through that lie without opening her eyes.

"You don't have to worry about me," he says.

How he relates to a friend with cancer, he doesn't know. He doesn't want to know, really.

Jane rests her forehead against his shoulder. Thor's skin burns at the shame that his grieving over Frigga and Loki has been so heavy and prominent that it affects even those here on Midgard. He knows he should be strong—even if he is not a king, he is still of Asgard, and he still should not wear his broken heart on its sleeve where it bruises and cuts against everything it passes.

Except even then it does not matter—tears or no tears, he cannot bring back Frigga or Loki. He cannot hold either of them again.

When Jane finally lets go, her eyes are red, but otherwise dry. Thor smooths her hair, not unlike how Frigga once would do to calm him and Loki down during illness or sleepless nights. Jane keeps her gaze fixed on Thor's knee.

"Will you be here tomorrow?" says Jane.

"I will have to leave in the morning," says Thor. He takes in a deep breath. "Ultron is proving to be a threat to the world, and the Avengers need my help."

"Is Ultron really dangerous?" says Jane.

Thor shrugs a shoulder. The honest answer is 'yes;' Ultron has already tried leveling Washington D.C. and caused a great deal of casualties. SHIELD has been trying to keep it on the down low this entire time, but it is reaching the peak that they can no longer hold off Ultron on their own. He is not afraid; as far as fear goes, he has dealt with much worse.

"How long will you be gone?" she says.

"Until Ultron is subdued," Thor says.

Jane presses her lips together but nods. She opens her mouth as if she is about to say something, but then changes her mind and leans away from him.

"Be safe, okay?" Jane says. "Don't—don't worry about anything, just stay safe."

"When do I not?" says Thor.

Jane gives him a look that clearly states the answer to his question. He backs away, a smile itching on his lips.

"You should go to bed," she says. "I don't want you falling asleep while battling artificial intelligence."

"All right, all right," he says. "Please take the bed. I can sleep out here."

"You're the one about to save the world or something along those lines," Jane says. "I'd be doing it wrong if I crashed into your place and stole your bed."

He chuckles and shakes his head before standing up. He doubts he will get much sleep in the first place, wherever he lies. Rest is something he forgets how to do.

When he pays her one last glance back before leaving the living room, he catches sight of the look on her face. She is grave, drawn back, despite his attempts to comfort her. She looks more than sad, or pained—she looks lost.

Thor doesn't sleep that night.

* * *

Someone is wheezing. They sound like they're dying, like a cat is shoved down their throat, like they've been beheaded and they won't stop being alive, except air is just whistling past the slit in their throat that hurts the ears.

Someone is wheezing and they need to _shut up_.

Loki spits into the kitchen sink. His spittle is pink and frothed. He grimaces at the sight; he still tastes blood at the base of his throat.

The wheezing won't stop and he wishes he could just wrap his hands around whoever's throat that is and just _strangle_ it until no sound comes from it whatsoever. It's making his ears hurt and chest hurt and heart hurt and bones hurt—

"Loki."

Loki coughs. More dots of red color the chrome sink. He's suddenly mesmerized by the color, as if he has never seen anything so vibrant. It reminds him vaguely of Thor's cloak.

"Loki."

There is a hand on his lower back. Loki jerks at the sudden contact. He rams against the counter and doubles over, breathing heavily.

Oh, of course.

That wheezing bastard is himself.

He feels a glass shoved into his hand. When he looks down to it, he sees that it is water. He laughs.

"Are you drowning me with water too?" he says. "As I'm apparently about to drown in my own blood."

Jane says nothing. She only stares at his back. Loki downs the entire glass in one gulp and tosses it into the sink.

"What is that sound?" Loki says.

"What?" says Jane.

"That noise," says Loki. There is someone speaking, saying things that are not within conversation as if they are giving a speech, but there is no one else in Jane's flat than the two of them. He wonders if a window is open to the next door orator, or maybe with dying he is also losing his life, for all he knows. "Someone is speaking."

"That's the television," says Jane. "It's been on all day. Haven't you noticed?"

Loki shakes his head. He feels as if cotton is shoved in his throat, his ears, his eyes. His senses are dulling and he wonders if his body is trying to quicken the process of growing old so that he could experience the joys of aging, since his life will not reach that stage.

Another bout of pain wracks his chest again. He swallows the pain down, trying hard not to shake. None of it compares to how it truly felt when Kurse shoved his blade into Loki's chest, but as time goes by the pain steadily grows, and he does not doubt that he would experience that moment again.

"Where were you these past several days?" says Jane.

"Hm?" Loki says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He tries to shake off the strip of blood that comes off.

"You weren't here yesterday, or the day before that," Jane says. "Where did you go?"

"Never thought you'd be concerned for my wellbeing," Loki says.

Jane says nothing. He tears a sheet of paper towel to wipe his hand and his thin lips.

"SHIELD still keeps that staff of mine hidden, I found," Loki says.

"What are you trying to do?" she says.

"Thanos will want to get his hands on it in the near future," Loki says. He crumples the paper towel and tosses it into her rubbish bin. "And I question whether or not SHIELD will keep it safe."

"Who is this Thanos?" says Jane. "What does he want with those Infinity Gems you mentioned?"

"Hopefully you won't find out," says Loki. "And if you do…" He shrugs. "Then your question will be answered."

He doesn't know when Thanos will strike. The other Infinity Gems and any means to reach them are scattered and difficult, thanks to Loki's intervention, but even an impenetrable object may not stand a chance against an unstoppable force like Thanos. Loki realizes with a sinking stone in his stomach that try as he might, he probably will not know how his actions will result, whether in success or failure. If he can finish his good work at all in the first place.

"Anyway, I thought you would be glad of my absence," Loki says. "You wouldn't want me outstaying my welcome, would you?"

"Why do you stay here?" says Jane. "Why not the Ritz, or whatever five star suite you were bumming off of?"

Loki chuckles and passes her by for the living room. There is no point telling her how those cavernous, ornate rooms haunt him. Or that he can find bits and pieces of Thor scattered about her place in the form of an extra coffee mug, or a blue towel she doesn't use, or his pair of shoes he left here—bits of Thor that almost reminded Loki of a home he long lost. There is no point telling her that he feels _comfortable_ here. He is never meant to die in finery, anyway.

"—urgent news from Adam on the field. Adam, can you hear me?"

The television is loud, with voices speaking frantically. Loki spares it a glance. There are images of fire and crumbled buildings—people running and screaming, and shots of what Loki recognizes with a jolt of amused recognition to be Iron Man skimming through the city.

"What is this?" Loki says.

Jane hurries to the television, worry etched on her face. She purses her lips, leaning over the couch in complete focus of the television screen.

"It's what's going on stateside," she says. "The Avengers are fighting this warmongering robot named Ultron."

"Huh." On the screen, the raging green monster smashes against what looks like a gigantic suit of armor that towers nearly as tall as a building. Loki cannot help but feel a twinge of a grudge against the beast and silently root for whatever that metallic titan is. "If Thor were there, I suppose he'd do a more effective number than your mortals."

Jane's jaw tenses.

"Thor _is_ there," says Jane. "I don't know where he is exactly, though."

Loki looks sharply at Jane before turning back to the television. He can see the soldier out of time, shielding the civilians from what looks like a ray of dark energy. He catches sight of the archer who shoots at Ultron from above—he swears he sees the assassin scaling a building wall to reach. But he cannot find Thor anywhere in the mix.

"Maybe he dropped Mjolnir," he says.

He sinks onto the couch, clenching and unclenching his fist. He can tell just by watching Ultron that this is no mindless beast. Ultron fights with strategy, fights with intellect and understanding—and of course, power. There is blood all over the captain's left side. The green beast can barely lift its arms over and over again. Iron Man's left arm dangles uselessly at his side.

Where is Thor?

"Don't tell me you will keep this on because you cannot stop worrying for him," Loki says.

"That's not your concern," Jane says.

"This is Thor you are talking about. He could withstand the power of the Bifröst unleashed upon him and still get up."

"Look, this is my house, I can watch whatever I want," Jane says.

She gnaws on her bottom lip as the news reporter rattles on about destroyed property, estimated casualties—about the Avengers' positions.

"—and Thor, any report on Thor?" says the other news reporter from the station.

"No news about him yet, Jim," says the reporter in the field. "Last time he was seen, witnesses say he was taking Ultron on his own down on Fifth."

"Typical," Loki says. "Absolutely _typical_."

"Do you think he's all right?" says Jane.

"What difference does it make?" says Loki. "What can you do?"

He still searches for Thor on the television. He tears himself off the couch and away to the hallway just to keep his composure. There was a time Loki could tell when Thor is in trouble, just like when Thor used to feel physically pained or ill when Loki was injured or sick. He doesn't remember when exactly it stopped, only that it did, even though somewhere in the back of his heart he grasps blindly for that ability again.

"I almost broke my promise," Jane says.

Loki turns sharply to her. She is still watching the television, her back tense.

"What?" says Loki.

"I almost told Thor the truth," she says. Her voice is stiff. "That you are still alive, even if it's just for now."

"And what did you do?" Loki says.

"Of course I didn't," Jane says, nearly spitting out her words. "Otherwise I doubt he'd even be in the States, battling Ultron."

Loki lifts his chin. It makes him feel like he has nothing to fear.

"Well," he says. "I'm satisfied to hear that you refrained."

"I didn't keep the secret for you," says Jane. "I did it for him."

"I am aware," Loki says.

"I was afraid he'd let himself get hurt if he didn't know," Jane says. She turns to face him, accusation in her stare. "I was afraid he wouldn't care if he got killed fighting Ultron if he thought you were dead. I was so close to telling him, just so he could make sure he came out of it all _okay_."

"Thor has far much more to live for than a dead brother," says Loki. Somehow, her words made him jolt. "I would think you'd think his world revolved around you, after all. Since he gave up so much to be with you."

"Well, I already know that isn't true," Jane says.

She turns back to the television. Loki opens his mouth, about to ask what she meant, but he does not let his curiosity slide.

"Whatever this pathetic excuse for a foe is," Loki says, waving his hand to the television, "it will hardly faze Thor. Clearly you've never witnessed him take on a lindworm."

"A what?" says Jane.

"A venomous dragon," says Loki. "One prick of its teeth will make a mortal shrivel and rot in their place in less than half a minute."

Jane draws herself closer as if cold. She turns back to the television.

Loki takes this moment to duck into the bathroom and lock the door behind him. Immediately afterward he lets out a long, jagged breath, as if he has been underwater this whole time. He gasps for air, hand groping on the wall to turn on the bathroom fan so that Jane would not hear him.

He gives himself a moment for his glamour to drop. Immediately his seemingly normal façade melts away and reveals gaunt cheeks and ashen skin, shadows splayed about him. His knees shake and he sinks to the tiled floor, hand pressed against his burning chest.

"Damn," he whispers.

He closes his eyes, trying to breathe in deeply. Each breath tears. He lets his head fall back against the wall.

_Damn_.

He had thought he would have at least a year to live—his magic was powerful, he ruefully reasoned. But at this rate, he may only have weeks.

His wound surges in pain and he cannot help but give a small gasp, fingers digging into his skin. It _hurts_.

(Mama, it hurts, please, please kiss it to make it better, Mama—)

He laughs in spite of himself, but no sound comes out. He almost can imagine Mother's warm hands cupping his face. Her soft kiss on his forehead like the ones in his childhood memories. His entire body could be broken, but if Frigga held him none of that would matter.

_Would you rather never see Frigga again?_

_Rather than just see her one last time and _love_ her?_

Loki knows the answer.

(The answer no)

But it doesn't _matter_, because Frigga is in Valhalla, at peace, but Loki is still alive and dying. Maybe—with a shred of luck—he could have joined her there if only he died right in the spot of Svartalfheim, but now as he cowers in pain in a mortal's bathroom, he knows that whenever death finds him it will be without honor. This time he has no pretty lies to give him false hope anymore, that he could ever be given a place in Valhalla just for doing what he would have done whether death had followed or not. He will be tossed aside into Hel as he ought to be and he will never be with Frigga again.

A cold sense of loneliness washes over him.

He wishes he is dead, and yet he is afraid that even then, he will be alone.

Or maybe he will be too dead to notice.

(I am Loki, and I am alone)

But he wonders if that is what he _wants_.

_Thor—_

He squeezes his eyes shut. He hates Thor for never leaving his mind. Hates that Loki will not see him, has not seen him for months, and yet he cannot shed Thor's face from his mind.

What would happen if Thor knew?

Nothing good, Loki urges himself to remember. Nothing. Because even if Thor does not fall into grief again, even if Thor will not be crippled again by a third loss, Loki cannot see Thor loving him. He sees Thor being angry, accusing him for trickery, saying '_I had a glimmer of hope that my brother was still in there somewhere_' and Loki would have to pretend that it does not hurt because it shouldn't, because he should not love Thor and Thor should not love him, because so much has gone in between them that there can be no real reconciliation in life.

Loki can barely hear the television through the door. He tries to breathe in. It hurts so much and he is shaking.

His hands are still smudged with ink. There is a paper cut on his thumb from when he ripped a sheet of paper in self-hatred and anger and threw it into the nearly overflowing wastebasket of other rejected, unfinished letters to Thor, because every time he had that childish, selfish, stupid impulse to write to Thor, to tell him _I'm here, brother, I'm here, good bye, I want to say good bye_—he remembers how stupid he is being, that Thor thinks he is already dead and wouldn't want a damned, useless _letter_ to remind him of a someone who by rights should already be gone.

_Thank you_, were the last words Thor said to him, and they were meant for Odin, not Loki.

_Died with honor_, was the last thing Thor said about Loki, and that was meant for Odin, not Loki.

And Loki is so selfish that he will hold on to these last golden words. He doesn't want his last words from Thor (brother) to him to be anything else. Doesn't want his last words from Thor to be something angry, or indignant, or hateful. Because even though Loki should not care anymore, he does not want to die unloved. After everything he doesn't want to not _matter_.

It's such a disgustingly human and desperate need, but Loki cannot stop needing it.

He presses his fingers against his lips. They shake. He tries to breathe heavily. It's like he is about to cry, except he is not sad—far from it. He is so tired, and is so tired of waiting, of fearing, of hating and festering and fighting. He wants to rest, he wants to see his mother again, and he can have none of that.

_Thor_—

His heart jolts at the thought of Thor battling that Ultron. How Thor has not been seen in so long. How Thor is probably raging head-on with the enemy with _no_ plan, _no _strategy, _no _common sense, and what an idiot he is—

And Loki knows that he is such a fool because he still loves Thor.

Still loves him, and now he aches and rages and fights and is bitter because part of him—a raw, foolish, shameful part of him wants to say goodbye. But he knows better. He knows better, and he will not.

He takes several breaths before he rises from the floor again. He draws the slivers of his strength to pull up a glamour again—a dying man never looks good. He stumbles out the bathroom, barely remembering to turn off the lights.

Jane is still hovering near the television. Loki takes his place beside her. The camera is still in the demolished city, with a haggard voice in the background.

"—National Guard coming in as support. So far, no update on where Hawkeye has gone since his helicopter has been shot down—"

"Thor is on TV," Jane says. Her voice is strangely calm.

Loki looks up immediately. There—battling Ultron head on with lightning and might—is his brother. The camera barely focuses on him, but Loki could recognize Thor even if he is a small black dot from miles away.

"Does Thor even fight with strategy?" Loki says. "By the Norns, of course he doesn't, the _fool_."

Jane says nothing. She is scratching her arm as if it is festering.

"God," she says. "I wish I were there. I can't even do _anything_ to fight him, unless he ran on solar power or something like that. But I wish I were _there_."

"You'd just be another worry for Thor to distract himself with," Loki says. "Wouldn't want that, would we?"

Jane says nothing. Loki digs his nails into the sofa upholstery. The camera sometimes veers away from Thor and he feels his nerves surge.

"—Iron Man down! I repeat, Iron Man is down!"

"What's going to happen?" Jane says.

"—Thor is taking on Ultron alone, I don't know what he's planning but—"

"He's planning _nothing_," Loki says. He tries not to grit his teeth. "His strategy is always, 'Now everybody, on the count of three.'"

Thor on the television screen sends a wave of lightning into Ultron's head. Ultron seizes from the blow, but it barely does so much as make him stumble. The metal titan moves _fast_, and jets of fire stream from its hands. Thor barely escapes being scorched.

Loki sees how his brother tumbles against the concrete, ripping a scar down the street. Sees his brother bleed.

He swallows.

Thor swings Mjolnir in the right time when Ultron has not regained its composure. It knocks Ultron to the side, a dent in its abdomen.

When Thor draws Mjolnir back, he runs forth, slamming his hammer against Ultron's knee.

Ultron falls onto one knee and makes what buildings that are left standing sway.

Loki does not realize that he is holding his breath.

He remembers, all of a sudden, seeing Kurse pummel his brother from afar as if he was nothing but mud, and his heart races.

Lightning strikes Ultron in the chest. Ultron writhes and stumbles back.

Thor gathers himself from the ground—he looks away.

Loki sees it first—

Sees how Ultron's hands suddenly grow with an unnatural beam.

If Loki fought alongside his brother again, he would shout his name.

If he fought alongside Thor again, he would throw out a magical shield.

He would attack Ultron himself.

(just like the old days)

But Loki is not, and he watches, blind and muted—

as Ultron shoots a ray of blinding power at Thor, hitting him straight in the chest.

Thor flies back, crashing into a building, out of the camera's view.

The cameramen were saying something—shouting—but Loki has no ears for them.

He feels his blood _surge_.

Jane grows pale beside him.

_THOR—_

"What happened to him?" Jane says. She is gasping for breath. "Where'd he go, he's not coming back up, _he's not coming back up_!"

Blood rushes in Loki's ears.

Thor does not reappear on the screen. Captain America is now taking on Ultron with Agent Romanoff. Iron Man is reported to be under debris. Hawkeye is described to have a shattered leg.

Thor doesn't come back out.

"Is he okay?" Jane says. "Oh my God, is he—?"

_Thor._

Loki does not stop to think. He reaches out and grabs Jane roughly by the forearm. She stiffens at his grip, turning anxiously toward him.

"What are you doing?" she says.

"Jane," says Loki. He smiles, in spite of himself. "Can I trust you?"

Jane sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that she knows what he will do.

She nods. Loki sets his jaw. He takes in a breath, drawing his magic. It hurts him, but he doesn't care.

His eyes are fixed on the television screen. Thor still does not reappear from the crumpled building.

"Then you know what you need to do," Loki says.

"Yes," says Jane. Her voice shakes. "To trust you."

And with that, they disappear from her flat.


	9. Chapter 9

**My last update in the states until I fly to London tomorrow! So excited. Hopefully I'll be able to keep updates going while I'm there. Shouldn't be a problem, there are only about three chapters left after this one :).**

* * *

When they feel the ground rematerialize beneath their feet, Loki nearly falls. He almost grips on Jane for support, then hastily corrects himself before she knows of his moment of weakness.

There are snapped wires everywhere, still twitching with the last electrical charge that once flowed continuously through them. It looks like some sort of business building, except it's hard to say now that the whole place is in shambles and the walls crumbling.

First the smell of dust and smoke hits Loki. Then the sounds raging outside, of fire and crashing and burning, metal twisting and screaming. Then he feels the stab wound in his chest.

"Find him, Jane," Loki says. He gives her a gentle shove. She stumbles over her own feet. "I'll secure the area."

She runs off without another word, diving deep into the debris of the building. Loki turns away toward the gaping, crumbling hole in the wall that opens up toward the cityscape. He smells the blood in the air.

He wonders how much of it is Thor's.

There is a shudder underneath his feet and all about him. He looks up immediately to see white dust falling. Bits of rock are falling to the ground, some as fine as sand, others cutting him as it falls upon his skin.

The ceiling is about to cave in.

He turns on the spot, searching for where Thor may be. Is he in this building at all? Is he hurt? Did he get out the other way and the news reporter did not see him? Is he somewhere out here, screaming out?

If the ceiling caves in, will his brother die?

He holds out his palms. Magic streams from his fingers, pouring down to the ground, trickling up onto the walls, splaying across the ceiling. Gold light criss-crosses like nets around the walls and ceiling so nothing falls, not even a speck of dust. He hopes it will last long enough. He doubts his magic will falter, otherwise by all rights he should be dead now.

The ground shakes. The walls shudder against the nets of Loki's magic. He runs to the crushed windows, trying to see the source of the unrest. Just as he looks out, a jet of red and gold light rushes past, so close Loki thinks he could have reach out and touch it if he tried. The surprise makes him stumble back as the flying object darts toward Ultron, blue jets of light streaming from it.

Loki cannot help but smile wryly. What a surprise it would have been for Iron Man if he had just turned his head at the right second to see Loki standing here.

There is another crash. Loki looks quickly only to just catch Stark be thrown against the pillars of a government building. He almost contemplates going out and challenging Ultron as well—after all, besides the green beast, Loki himself _clearly_ can take on any of the Avengers in a fight. But he dismisses the idea—this is the humans' problem, and he has little energy to waste.

"Loki!"

Jane's voice is muffled. Loki turns sharply, careful not to let his magic waver. He feels the pressure of the trembling walls and ceilings against his magic.

"Did you find him?" Loki says.

"He's here—he's alive but he won't wake up."

Loki rushes toward Jane's voice, throwing aside broken wires and crushed furniture that stands in the way. He finds Thor and Jane huddled in the remnants of what must have been a printer room, with smashed machinery all about them. Thor is crushed into the wall, unmoving, while Jane tries to extract him from the ruins.

Loki stops short before he can have a clear view of them. His heart shudders as his steps falter, and his blood runs cold. Suddenly he feels himself ripping apart, not because of any wound but because of his heart. He wants to run over, push Jane out of the way and pull Thor out of the rubble. Wants to press his hands against Thor's chest and heal him—wants to look upon Thor's face and _see him_. And yet, he wants to run, run away as fast as he can until he loses breath and strength and heart. Run away and not see Thor again, because if he does he knows it will all crumble, this perfect façade and perfect armor that he protects himself with. He will cave, and he will not be able to stay away, and in the end it will all be for naught.

Jane looks up toward Loki. He sees blood on her hands.

"Loki," she says, breathing heavily. "Help him."

Loki's breath freezes in his throat. He feels the building falling heavy in his bones. His eyes are on Thor's back; he cannot see his face. Thor doesn't move.

"Loki, _hurry_!" she says, nearly spitting out her words. "He's barely breathing!"

Loki doesn't think. He hurries forward, kneeling next to her. He puts his hands on Thor's shoulders and with great effort _hauls_ him out of the debris. To feel his brother in his hands, after swearing they shall never meet again to the very end, makes him lose his breath.

Thor falls out of the rocks, limp. His breaths are shallow and he will not open his eyes. Loki clenches his teeth as he checks Thor's vitals, checks for any serious wounds. He is not afraid, because he has nothing to lose. He has already lost his life, and with that life, any reason or right to pretend that Thor is his brother. He has nothing now, and when one has nothing one should _not be afraid_.

"Thor," Loki says. He wonders—if Thor could hear, would he recognize it is Loki? "_Thor_."

He checks Thor's pulse. It is worryingly weak. He pushes on, sparing a sliver of magic from supporting the ceiling for Thor. He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply, trying to find the core wound. It has to be from that jet of power that Ultron had hit Thor with—but what it is, Loki does not know.

"What can I do?" Jane says.

"Stand guard," says Loki. "Make sure no one from SHIELD comes without my knowing."

The truth is, Loki could probably sense them if an outsider comes in, unless it is Agent Romanoff. But Jane nods and goes to the door anyway, keeping watch for any uniformed agent. Loki turns his attention back to Thor. He will look anywhere except Thor's face.

He just realizes how stupid he is, leaving himself alone with Thor, but he does not want Jane to see Loki like this. Not when his hands are trembling and his teeth are clenched and he's trying so hard not to be afraid.

He still can see Kurse pummeling Thor over and over again in Svartalfheim, and how it made his blood surge and grow cold. Remembered that sinking feeling of his stomach when he rushed forward with a blade because he knew, somehow, it would not end well.

"Thor, you will not die," Loki says in a low voice. He passes his hand over Thor's chest, his magic sending energy into Thor's body to build its strength. Whatever it was that Ultron attacked Thor with nearly put Thor's body in a standstill, as if in a coma, if not worse. "You will not _beat me _to death, Thor, you will not—"

His throat swells and he swallows hard. The Norns are fairer than this, more just than this. They have already let Frigga die while Loki somehow scraped by with some months to spare. Surely they will not take Thor away while Loki, who by any rights ought to die more than either of the two, still breathes.

Thor's chest is barely rising. Loki is running out of time. Thor could die at any second and slip from Loki's grasp, and Loki could only watch. He can't fix the problem quickly enough, not unless he forces time to stand still to awaken every nerve and cell in Thor's mind so it would gain strength to keep alive his body and _wake up_.

Loki links his magic to Thor's lungs. He feels how Thor's breath flutters weakly beneath his chest, worryingly so. With that same strand of magic Loki stretches it to its limit, linking it to his own lungs. The bond is fragile, but it holds, and this is enough.

He takes in a deep breath. Thor's follows, chest rising higher than before.

His heartbeat doesn't shudder for a brief moment.

Loki continues breathing in deeply, breathing for Thor. To think that he shouldn't be breathing now in the first place, but if it isn't for Loki then Thor may not either.

He breathes deeper and his breath hitches. He remembers the cut the blade has made in his chest and the sharp pain makes him spasm for a moment. He doubles over in pain, trying not to lose his focus or his hold onto Thor, in case Thor's life hangs on the edge and it is only Loki who could pull him back up. The role reversal is jarring.

His forehead almost touches Thor's. Loki closes his eyes. He refuses to see Thor's face. If he does, he knows he will never be able to run away.

_Thor, open your eyes—_

He breathes. Thor breathes. Thor's heart still beats.

This is good.

He wonders—for a moment—what he would do if Thor rouses and sees him right now. He knows he should take more precautions, wants to hide himself so he is invisible—but he cannot bring himself to think of it right now. Not yet.

He breathes. Thor breathes. Loki's eyes are still closed.

He hears something behind him, but he does not move. He thinks he might feel Thor's steady breath against his shoulder. His hand tenses.

"Loki," Jane says. Her voice shakes. Maybe she thinks that, with Loki's position over Thor, it looks as if Loki is weeping over a dead body. Maybe she has seen this before, except with roles reversed. "Is he okay?"

Loki almost says, _aren't you supposed to be watching the door?_ Except he's trying to breathe for Thor and he fears that a moment of speaking is long enough for Thor to lose his track, his strength. He lifts his head slowly, not opening his eyes until his neck cranes and he faces the ceiling. The faint lines of his magic still hold.

"Loki?" says Jane. Her voice breaks.

"He's living," Loki says.

It's as much breath he will deign to spare for her that he takes from his brother. If he were in this situation half a year ago, a whole year ago, perhaps two, he wonders if he would have just stood up and walked away from Thor, to let him die alone. If he would mock Thor, spit upon Thor, and maybe worsen the situation with a knife and cruel words.

_Brother—_

"Ultron's been brought down," Jane says. "They're looking for Thor."

Loki loosens the thread of magic that connects him and his brother slowly. When he feels Thor still breathing under his hand as he disconnects from him, he lets his shoulders droop. He thinks he could fall to the ground and just lie there, if only he doesn't have to run away.

"He'll stay alive," Loki says. "I don't know when he'll wake, but he'll stay alive."

"Loki," says Jane.

And there is something in her tone of voice that makes Loki want to snap at her. It sounds so grave, so calm, as if she _knows_ something about him that she shouldn't know, but there is _nothing_ about him that she understands. But Loki is tired and he still will not let go of Thor and he _still_ will not look at Thor.

(He's falling, he feels himself slipping, he's going toward a very terrible fall and he knows that no matter what he does, if he broke his vow and runs back to Thor, if he locks himself away and never sees Thor again, it will only _hurt_)

"They will contact you, undoubtedly," says Loki. "To tell you that he fell."

"He'll be okay, won't he?" says Jane.

"It wouldn't do well if they found you here unannounced," Loki says.

"Are you okay?"

Loki turns sharply toward her. She doesn't shrink back from his glare.

"He needs medical attention quickly," says Loki. "Are they here?"

"They're coming toward this area, SHIELD," says Jane. "If you want to disappear, you'll have to do it soon."

"If I should leave, then the building will fall and my brother will die," says Loki. He catches his slip of the tongue too late, and he pretends he does not notice. Jane does—he sees it in the way her lips thin. "We must bring him out of here."

"Where?" says Jane.

"Outside. To another building. I don't know." Loki tightens his grip on Thor's arm. He feels the engraving of the vambraces against his palm. He feels the etching of his helmet still on the metal. A rush of strange pain fills him. "Hold onto me, Jane Foster. We cannot be slow."

Jane comes and holds onto his shoulder. Her hand is laughably small, and yet her grip is strong. Her gaze is fixed Thor. Loki wonders if he will see Thor's face in Jane's eyes as she drinks him in—see what he will not allow himself to see.

Loki takes in a deep breath. He closes his eyes and digs his fingernails into Thor's arm.

His magic shivers. He feels the dust fall from the ceiling.

He rips open the spaces in reality and pulls them all in.

The ceiling shudders before falling just as they disappear—squeezing between the spaces of reality as Loki drags them elsewhere, anywhere. He clings to Thor.

And with one last push he throws them all out into the world again. They crash into dirt and grass, scraping pavement. Loki feels his sleeve tear. Jane yelps beside him.

When they come to a complete stop, Loki lifts his head. They are perhaps four hundred meters away from the now crumpling building, as if it is made of paper. Loki turns to Jane, who is hovering over Thor, his face in her hands. He refuses to let his eyes fall upon his brother's face.

"Thor, Thor, can you hear me?" Jane says. "Thor—Thor, stay alive, okay? You gotta stay strong…"

Loki hears shouts. He pushes himself off the ground immediately, hand held up as if to defend himself. SHIELD must be coming—the falling building sends them running out of the way. Sooner or later they may pass here—sooner or later they may see them.

There is no time. Loki grabs Jane roughly by the forearm, dragging her away from Thor. She lets out a cry of protest.

"Shut up," he says. "You will have your time with him enough."

Loki does not look down at Thor. He has told himself that Svartalfheim will be the last time. He will not break that.

He doesn't want to break his own heart.

Loki lifts a palm to the sky and gives one last burst of his magic. Trees splinter at his call and the ground rumbles. He hears people shouting in alarm and confusion at the sudden disturbance. He knows they will run here—they will find Thor.

With that, he draws the last bit of his energy. He and Jane are gone long before anyone runs to Thor's side.

* * *

When Loki took them to Jane's flat, he promptly fell asleep on her couch. He didn't even stir when Jane received the expected phone call two hours later from SHIELD telling her that Thor is injured, and if she'd like they can send a helicopter to her to bring her to the medical bay stateside. She feigned shock at the news adequately enough.

She doesn't know if she should wake Loki. She feels guilty leaving him after he expended so much energy to help Thor and to bring them back, but she knows that it would be pointless to stay behind and make sure he is all right. After all, he is already dying; nothing she can do will change that.

He wouldn't care if he woke to her gone, but she leaves a note explaining where she went on the coffee table.

He wouldn't care to follow even if he could turn invisible to the eye, but she leaves the address to SHIELD's medical bay on the note if he wants it. She doesn't know if he can be trusted with that information, but she doubts that she can stand between Loki and any information he wants.

He would be more insulted than touched, but she draws a blanket over his sleeping form before she leaves.

She remains silent on the flight to the States. Not out of nervousness, because she is not. If anything, she at least is not as much in the dark as she could have been. She's afraid of saying anything, though, that may give away that not everything is as it seems with her. Lying, she realizes, is actually very different from not telling the truth.

The flight is nearly nine hours, but she makes it to the medical bay before midnight. She greets Director Fury with a tight smile and sparse words before letting herself be led to Thor's room. Apparently he was hit by Ultron's encephalo-ray, but whatever that is Jane has no idea. It tells her very little about how and if he will be all right.

Jane sits down on the chair that the nurse pulls out for her. Thor is pale and still on the bed. His heart rate is lethargic, but stable. And the cuts along his face are cleaned. He breathes.

She breathes.

She reaches out a hand to put over his wrist. His wrist has a tube embedded in his skin. She is careful not to budge it. Would it even hurt him if she accidentally does? Maybe a flinch would flit across his face, a grimace, anything but this stone stillness from which he would not wake.

"Thor," Jane says. "Can you hear me?"

The doctor had told her that the encephalo-ray leaves Thor in some deep coma. She doesn't know how to think of it, because it is neither death nor sleep. When her dad was caught in the car crash, death was instantaneous. There was no time for a coma.

But they say that people in comas could still hear, and that may help. Jane clasps Thor's hands between hers. His skin is scabbed and rough against hers.

"Please wake up, okay?" Jane says. "Just be all right. You've been through so much. Please be all right."

She closes her eyes. She doesn't know if her voice would do anything to wake him. She wonders—maybe—if Loki would speak to him, or if she would tell him _Loki is alive_—maybe his eyes would snap open and he would sit up and be all right and breaking her promise would be fine because _Thor_ is fine.

Or maybe it would give him false hope, and when Loki dies again, or when Jane cannot bring Loki to him to prove the truth, Thor would falter, wither, bruised with disappointment and desolation until he, like his brother, never survived but only prolonged.

She tightens her lips and draws her hands away. She leans forward so that her elbows rest on her knees, and lets her head hang low. She doesn't even deserve to look at Thor for as long as she is supposed to lie to him, and she is supposed to lie to him indefinitely.

It hits her, like a bullet, that she will have to hold onto this lie forever. Even after Loki is dead and gone, because she will never, ever bear to tell Thor that his brother had come back and had gone because it would break his heart if he knew. She cannot betray him like that, but how is she supposed to lie to him forever?

"I suppose it could be worse."

She jumps to her feet at the sudden sound and spins around to see Loki standing in front of the closed door. His eyes are fixed solely on her; it makes her feel like she ought to turn into stone.

"Did you just wake up?" says Jane.

Loki nods. He must have been asleep for twelve or so hours straight, but he doesn't look any more rested. He moves to stand next to her chair, at Thor's bedside, his eyes on an indistinguishable point on the wall.

"What is his condition, exactly?" says Loki.

"He's in a coma," says Jane.

"And what," Loki says, sweeping a hand toward the machinery that surrounds Thor, with its incessant beeping and whirring, "will any of this accomplish for him?"

"They keep up his heart rate and breathing rate," Jane says. The scientific talk calms her, because facts and theories don't lie. They don't hide the truth to Thor that his brother is alive, only to die again and leave him alone. They don't make her feel anything. "Otherwise, with comas…there really isn't a foolproof way to fix them. You just have to take care of the person and wait."

Loki takes in a deep breath. He still stares at the wall. Jane looks up at him. His lips are ripped—he must have been biting them.

"But he will live," says Loki.

"They say he will," says Jane.

"Hard to imagine," he says, "that something a mortal creates would be able to damage him like this."

"Yeah," she says. She rests her eyes on Thor's face. She isn't used to seeing him in this state of weakness. Crying, perhaps. Angry, depressed, resentful, torn, heartbroken, of course. But not like this, where she cannot exactly say he is either alive or dead. "Even after the battle with Malekith, he was out for only a short while."

She wonders if Loki even knows what had transpired after he had been stabbed. She isn't sure if anyone would have likely run the details through with him.

Loki takes in a deep breath. She realizes that he is clenching his teeth. Slowly, she rises from her chair and steps away from it. Loki turns to her, furrowing his eyebrows.

"They say," Jane says, "that when someone is in a coma…when they hear their loved ones talking to them, they might wake up sooner."

Loki stiffens. Jane tightens her grip on the back of her chair, but she does not react any other way. His glare is petrifying.

"What is this, the Odinsleep?" says Loki.

"That's what they say," says Jane.

Loki scoffs but he looks away to the ground. His jaw twitches.

"So he hears us as we speak?" says Loki.

"I don't know, I've never been in a coma," says Jane. "Maybe he can. Maybe it's a placebo effect."

"Maybe he can't," Loki says.

He lowers himself onto the chair that Jane was sitting on seconds earlier. He sits stiffly, on the edge, his knees shoved against the side of Thor's bed. He stares anywhere else, his hands, the window, the floor, but not at Thor. Jane grips the chair; she almost thinks she can feel it shudder.

Finally, Loki lifts his head to see Thor. His shoulders stiffen and his hands clench, but he doesn't take his eyes away. Jane holds her breath, unsure what to do, what to expect. By all rights, she shouldn't trust him near Thor, much less anywhere. He is still the man who tried to kill Thor and level Puente Antiguo, who destroyed New York City. She should not feel this compassion and ache for him in her chest that she cannot deny, waiting for him to break his own promise.

There is silence. Loki watches his brother's unresponsive face, unmoving. What thoughts are in his head, what emotions, what anything, Jane cannot tell. She only watches the back of his head, as if she is mediating for him. Thor is not dying, and yet it feels like he is, because this moment will not last, and will be the last.

"Thor," Loki says.

Jane's heart jumps.

"Thor," he says again, and his voice trails off. He lowers his head and breathes in deeply for a moment, as if he has lost his energy, before he starts again. "You will wake up. You will not give up so easily. Do you hear me?"

Jane squeezes her eyes shut. Something in this moment makes her insides hurt.

"Don't be weak," Loki says. "You're going to wake up again. Do you hear me? You'll wake up and you'll keep on living and you'll live and live until you forget that this happened. You'll forget how it felt when you got hit. You'll forget about Ultron because you've long beat him and that past won't _matter_ when you've lived for so much. You'll forget about this day, you'll forget about everything else, about Malekith—you'll forget about me because you'd have so much _more_."

His words shouldn't hurt her, but they feel like knives to her skin. She can only imagine what they felt like being said.

"And you'll forget about me now, speaking to you," Loki says. His voice is soft. She wonders if he is shaking. It is hard to tell. "Because this won't matter, compared to everything good in your life. You'll have so much more, if you will be strong and not give up. I promise."

No, you do not, Jane thinks. You do not because you're a liar, and you always have. That's what they say. Your only promise is that you will lie, and I know it for a fact, because Thor loves you so much, and he will not forget you, not even if someone cuts his brain to shreds because you are in his _heart_, Loki.

She opens her eyes. Loki keeps his head bowed, and he will not touch Thor. His hands are resting tiredly on his lap. She wishes she knew what expression he holds on his face. If it would hurt to see.

Loki rises from his chair abruptly. Jane steps back before the chair can be shoved against her. When he turns to face her, she sucks in her breath. But there is no grief on his face, no regrets for the choice he has made to never meet his brother again. No anger or bitterness or anything she has seen before on him. Instead, there is an old weariness about him, as if the thousand years that he has lived has become too much now.

"I said that I have no side," Loki says. "And yet I always find myself by Thor's."

His gaze lingers on Thor for a moment before he turns away. Before Jane's gaze can follow him, he is already gone.


End file.
